AFV

: when I get home from work we never talk. i find her laying on the sofa, watching TV, on mute. I put my stuff on the table; keys, cellphone, watch, inhaler. she raises her arm. she's alive. like every night. I go to the fridge to get a beer. open the beer and take a long, painful drink. now i'm ready to kiss her forehead. I do that. I reach for the remote and know that America's Funniest Videos is on. I drink. She puts her legs on my lap. I kiss her feet. Both. I turn the volume on. We laugh at some of the videos and sometimes look at each other while laughing. I love her. She yawns at every commercial cut. She cuddles herself. I drink that bottle empty. I stand up, gently enough to smell her and not wake her. I go to the fridge. Open another beer. This time I drink it slowly, in the kitchen. And I look at her legs. And her hair. And the way she hugs herself to sleep. We never talk. We know.

old

the moss under his nails speak for him
his mouth eternally shut by the strands of a looong white beard

forgotten, unforgiven, living out of a rusty heart
with black and white pictures of his memories
tattooed on his lungs
he barely breathes

the sidewalk becomes a war zone of silence
I see him float by
the family he left behind,
the bottle he decided to empty before church,
the car he chose to drive into the magazine kiosk,
the unexisting bars behind bars,
a happiness only found within a misery

the moss under his nails drips
onto the napkin on the table
i'm feeding him motor oil for his heart
i'm taking pictures of the table setup, the salt the pepper

he is old and immaculate
forgotten and mute
me