Sometimes He Sang

Sometimes he sang—
head thrown back, the pearl of his throat
offered up to his sometimes queen,
passion spilling from his mouth like blood.
Sometimes she laughed—
with her eyes as well as her mouth,
amused by how he dove headfirst
into the music, into the wine, into her
with such reckless abandon.

And sometimes he was silent—
his eyes dark pools of anger
and overwhelming sadness.
And sometimes she screamed—
a bitter howling wind,
waves of accusations rising from her mouth,
lightening bolting from her eyes.

Sometimes the house erupted
with the sound of slamming doors,
shattered glass, breaking hearts.
And sometimes the house was smothered
by a heavy silence that reminded her
of the vast ocean between them.

Sometimes she could find him
falling from a stool at the corner bar—
drunk as a sailor his first night back on land.
And sometimes he marooned himself
on the island of another woman.

Sometimes they forgave each other,
weathered the storms of turmoil
that too often passed between them.
And sometimes they drowned
in a flood of bitter resentment.

Sometimes love keeps you from sinking
to the rocky bottom of your soul.
And sometimes love will anchor itself
to your heavy heart—
pull you down into the abyss,
kill you before you take your last breath.

Photo Credit: Simon Blackley Flickr via Compfight cc