At this point, there seemed little point
In belittling the finer points, preferably
We’d have been bigger than this. But this,
In all its pointlessness, points less
To what we had been and would know no more
To more likely us waking, back to back, knowing
The presence of sorrow moves above us,
Knowingly shuttered in some lovers heads.
Some that go are gone with only so many words
Uttered. That said, we suffer in silence
The dry, bruised bones of tragedy shouldering
Through, for this hush, bruised and bloodied, shining through.