Waiting For The Bubbles To Pop Poem by Chris G. Vaillancourt

If we are truly at the ending,
then
there is only this:
vague emotions broiling, waiting for
the bubbles to pop.

temporary moments of co-existence
that sustain until the next
series of hating begins.

I'm talking to you in riddles.
Social generalities about
having a nice day.

You also speak back at me
in the same half empty fashion.

And yet,

once our passion was so intense
it almost seemed like we
would never come out of
the bedroom.


But that memory is riddled
with gestures of aggression.

Small steps leading to
larger spaces where
the eyes can close
and end the daylight.

The candles burn out, one at a time.
The furnace shuts down.

Leaving only the chill of the evening wind.

I follow you with my hurt feelings,
desparate to pretend
that the anger is
just a fad.

A thing we are going through.

It will end, I think, when the memory of our
love-making resurfaces.

Breathing, I wait for this to happen.

I will die of old age before it does.

If we are truly at the ending,
than
there is only this:
intense moments of shouting
mixed with
no memories of before.

The most important thing left for us
is how many times we
can jam acupuncture needles
into each others' eye sockets.

If I find myself wanting to re-connect with you,
I'll hold on to the vision of
you
torturing yourself for being with me.