you would have spent hours
alone at the kitchen table,
drinking, taking painkillers
and praying to god.
the light from the television
would be flashing
in the living room.
the sound would be off.

but, you’d have your
act together when
your husband came home.
you’d silently serve him dinner.
he’d sit down at
the other end of the table,
angry from his work,
and grow more upset if you’d
say something kind or sweet.

when dinner was through,
the dishes were in the dishwater,
and your husband was
in the garage, you’d write
in your journal,
drink some coffee
with vodka, take a painkiller
for your headache, and watch
your first tear hit the page
and spread itself into it
like you imagined
an angel’s wings to be.

in the middle of the night,
as your husband slept,
you’d watch the nightlight
in your room fall on the curtains
and you’d think about
when you both were younger.
when he use to need you.

then, at that moment,
despite your years with him,
you’d hate him. hate him
for taking your love, the man
who used to kiss you
on the lips before bed
every night. and, seeing
yourself there, you’d pray
dear god. you’d pray
dear god for all that was lost.
for all that was still there.
you’d pray dear god.
you’d pray until
your eyes would close.