our Sauce Pot

you turn your head
to look at me.

i look down,
and your pillow’s wet
with salty teardrops,
and saltier sweat.

i look up at your face
and settle on your eyes.
i focus on the blue
iris with that hint of
hazel around your black
crater of pupil; so
glassy; so watered; so
exhausted; worn out; sad.

i see my reflection
in those low, tired eyes
exactly as I do
when I look into a
mirror, or a
window, or a
clean dish, or the
“Brand New Stainless Steel Sauce Pot!”
that is old now.
that you hate now.
that fosters rust.
and collects dust.

but you, when you
still saw a future,
when you still thought our
shopping trips to the
grocery store were
worth getting out of
the unmade bed for

you were so excited
when we decided
to take that sauce pot home
and call it ours.