where the writers are
Dying Dance

We brush by each other in the kitchen.

Quickly looking away as if it didn’t happen.

Polite, we never fight.

We only seethe.


Years of hurt have created a barrier that

clings like bubble wrap, 

Safe unless punctured by sharp words or

withering  looks.


Hands that needed no map now

are lost in a futile attempt to connect.

Blindly we grasp the tattered edges

 of our lives, unsure of why we hang on.


‘Do you want eggs for breakfast?’

‘I’ll pick up the kids today.’


Routines bind our minds.


Fear has entangled us in a sterile dance.

There is no grace in our steps. 

Never changing partners,

we plod on.