i slip into the room, my socks and the carpet creating
the faintest of whispers.
And as i change my clothes, i look to the bed
and see the lines of trouble on his resting face.
i climb in carefully because i don't want to wake him
but as i slide in next to him,
his soft, even breathing
takes on a shorter form,
and i know he is awake
and i whisper to him,
and he speaks to me
colder than usual
but the sound of his voice calms my hurt
just a bit.
Another pointless argument
another pointless topic
only to end like the others have, in the same, soft bed.
"It's normal to argue," the voices argue in my head,
and in my heart, they are true.
But every time he turns his back,
and every time he doesn't answer,
the voices leave me for a little while,
and i have only myself to blame.
he loves me, i love him
and i have only myself to blame.