That Evening, This Night

and when they're alone
sleeping in separate thought,
caught under a blanket borrowed not bought,
windows open to flap and lay back down in their latch,
letting slip a blood stream of wind
that pulsates through corridor veins, unleashed and off its reins.
Does the couple wake?
Do they stir from forgetful fantasies?
His: a silhouette shadow reading in the wind,
Hers: a lifetime of happiness spent only with him.
Do they cuddle together when their bodies notice a change in the air?
Do they care?

and when they were alone
underneath kitchen table light
that evening,
this night,
an argument between the two broke out
highlighting pursuits that were lost,
never started and cashed,
and dreams of marriage never realised,
though the ring was bought and shown to the eyes
of a father who waited cold on a bed hooked
up to clear tubed nooses.