Your Faith Was Strong But You Needed Proof

 

Your faith was strong but you needed proof.

Proof in me?  in us?

What is proof, anyway?

Like any word say it enough times 

it becomes 

awkward, unpleasant, alien in your mouth.

What is proof? I’ve never cared to know.

 

Proof of … what exactly

you, me, us?

Proving yet again that you can be as ponderous as you are loving,

as exhilarating as you are dull,

proving that – after all these years --

you are still as stimulating to me 

as you are

sleep-inducing.

 

Sleep inducing.

 

I close my eyes.

I am faithful to the moment,

to

this moment, to 

this minute, to these minutes, hours, days

to the weeks, months, the years and years and years with you

here on our couch,

I am faithful to this particular second.

 

Your faith, you say, is strong.  

but you need proof,

you sigh, 

crumple backwards onto the couch -- 

did someone punch the air out of you – yet again?

you sigh,

give me that look that I know so well.

 

So well.

 

That look – 

patronizing

kind

excruciating 

interminable  

all-knowing

dull

wise

wise-ass, 

impatient

angry.

You sigh

you turn your eyes to me

as you always have,  as you always do

 

And me?  I react 

I react as I do faithfully – no proof required – 

I react one of three ways:

  1. I pivot my back to you, quiver, try to compress my rage into a thin-lipped line

  2. I yawn, wonder what’s on tv 

  3. I get up and leave the house
     

Today  -- all three.

Today I rise, turn my back,

yawn

kiss you, 

leave.