They are two
porcelain figurines,
dancing
about each other. Afraid to touch
in their
brittle situation, in case
the brush of
a hand
reminds them
of the conversation
they’d
rather avoid.
Their bed, once
a sweet battlefield
is quiet
now, trenches dug either side,
neither will
yield,
a flag of
truce flying in the cold air.
Fragile, easily
broken.
