By Kelly Grace Thomas

I remember the days of backyard marathon philosophies,

where we put the literal and thematic in separate drawers like fancy china, or embarrassing secrets.

You used dark horse verbs to speak of the future, removing the set furniture of our forever.

On our third glass of wine you asked me what I wanted, fearful my answer would beg to break 

patterns you had carved out of survival.

No one wants the truth to stay for dinner, especially after a heavy snow.

So I sat back and looked at the neighbors empty windows

wanting our story to be anything but this.

This dance of a shared conversation 

about two entirely diverging negotiations.