Losing the Fight

They try their best to convince us not to go, but we go anyway, and the weather is beautiful and the conditions are ideal. We hike uphill for an hour, ignoring coyote warnings and fresh droppings. We don’t all live our lives in fear of yesterday’s storm. I shrug into my sweater, ocean views on all sides and berry plants that flame against the sky. On the way back a moose and her young block the path.

“Don’t move,” he says, pulling me behind him.

I can feel it all pent up inside me and I want to scream and charge it and scare something off for once. I’m not afraid, though he thinks I should be. It’s like crossing without looking. Thinking, “hit me, hit me, hit me.”

Later, we fight. I shut up and shut off, stepping out of his reach. The whys are no longer relevant, we say enough in silence, in terse words rationed out one by one. The new apartment is too small to house our bodies fighting, magnified. So we claim rooms like property and set up temporary forts, doors closed, for the cats to butt their heads against.

Hours pass and the immediacy of anger fades, I’m left hollow, wanting only to be held but unwilling to crawl into his arms or call a truce. I fall asleep curled against my body pillow, under my own blanket, a careful inch of space between us, backs rigid.

Overnight we lose all our fight, deflate, fit into our bodies again.

I get up and go to work. Slam the door, only to change my mind, come back, and kiss him softly as he sleeps. Pause to whisper love into his dreams. Unseen.

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5 thoughts on “Losing the Fight”

  1. Temporary forts, beautiful…

    …Fall Into Bed

    There’s so much sex in the air that it’s hard not to think if only for just a second that this chilly moisture sticking to my skin is simply sweat dripping from bodies held in that stayed prolonged wide eyed in the back of your head oh my god moment when you realize that tomorrow you are actually going to have to talk to this person before diving headlong back in to life.

    It’s the change of leaves falling scattered blood red and shit brown collected and consolidated into bundles of forgotten memories that’s got us grasping for each others hands before our fingers hide behind mittens/ expectations of the cold that has us piled like the leaves between sheets hoping that the friction of bumping into each other will keep the frost outside the window and that the act might come with the fuzzy glow of love that could survive the impending storm.

    Naked with the trees we may just make it/ swapping our seed with blankets quilted and matted/ prepared/ anxious even to see who that might be at the door. Down comforters and candles scented with lube and condoms and Donny Hathaway with the space heater unplugged. The pilot light of the furnace went out some time ago. But it’s okay/ we prefer our heat. Not that we could afford the bills anyway. It is true then in a certain sense: Love is cheap.

  2. “It’s like crossing without looking. Thinking, “hit me, hit me, hit me.””
    “I shut up and shut off, stepping out of his reach.”

    I feel like this a lot. And, like other readers said, have never put it into such beautiful words.

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