war, not love.

The snow sparkles and melts

with each imprint he leaves

on the sidewalk as he

moves like molasses

down the street.

His nose is swollen and matches

his wine-stained lips from

when he drank with her,

laughing, then crying,

earlier that evening.

And as he walks, there is a clear

struggle to his steps that is

pulling him backwards,

back to the spot they

parted and left.

His hands clasp around a velvet box

that he removes from his coat and

opens, staring briefly at its

contents before throwing

into the snow.

His eyes gleam and puddle,

his mouth moving from

sadness to anger and a

frown to a scowl and

back to a frown.

Flashing images abduct his mind

with pictures of the girl, his girl,

tangled in bedsheets with

someone who is not him

but who is a thief.

On the corner there is a small house

made of bricks that break his skin

as he hurls his fists at them

over and over as his

blood stains them.

Once his knuckles are raw and bare

he replaces them with his head

cracking his skull open against

the little brick house that

is taking a beating.

At home, she locks the door one,

two, three times, and moves on

to shut each window before

entering the bathroom

to clean her wounds.

Her broken nose has not yet healed

from the time he used her head

to smash the house's bricks

until it was flattened

against her face.

She dresses the wound and studies

her scabs, cuts and bruises

and all the while she

is breathing slowly

and smiling.