i woke before my eyes opened,
the taste of blood and shredded flesh
an astringent on my tongue.
no sunlight spilled on my eyelids,
but the voices of last nights fight was
tattooed behind them.
how enigmatic it is that
no matter how different two people can be,
when they fight like a couple on the
crumbling brink of divorce,
they all sound exactly the same.
until i made him pasta.