Square Peg. Round Hole. Dead Trails.

My stomach grumbles
on a stiff mattress
that hasn't hosted
the likes of this forlorn lover
in quite some time.
An array of pillows
is scattered on the floor
in the darkness of a room
I've never seen lit up.
The one I kept to sleep on
is too thick, too firm
and breaking my neck
like a slow-working noose.
Gas pains plague my guts
as I try to focus
on the familiar sound of the fan
instead of her eyelashes blinking.

This is the music
when the charm routine ends.

I keep her up most of the night
feeling awful that she works so early.
My tossing and turning
cannot be contained.
I'm a coyote with his leg in a trap
that doesn't want to gnaw through the bone
in case it's never caught again.
Her alarm clock beckons, she stalks
to the shower, I dress and make way
for the door while it's safe.
Goodbyes are harder than hellos
so it seems.
Part of me wants to make the bed
but I don't bother with my own.
Why falsely advertise?
I tried being honest.
I saw where it got me.
I'll slip out like I slid in:
shoegazing.

An ice storm coated my truck
overnight. I warm it up enough
for the wipers to work
and pull out
for the second time.
"Bullets," I mumble
as I head for the bridge.
Too many muscles relax
as I cough. 
Those rumbling bowels
get their revenge.
Oh no.
That didn't happen.
My life is a Ben Stiller movie.
The drive of shame's intensified
with a new sense of urgency.
I climb the stairs to my place
gingerly
and tend to pressing matters.
Maybe not having kids
wouldn't be so bad.
There are certain trials
you have to face alone.
They're the ones that make you.

Sleeping it off until mid-morning
feels better than I deserve.
I shoot back across the bridge
and double-park my vehicle
while delivering a package
that crossed my mind before:
a box of copper bullets
for that gun she's never fired.
I know what it's like
to be unprepared
when the cavalry says
they're not coming.

The bag hangs from her doorknob.
There's no need for a note.
She's never liked my words.
I can't say that I blame her.