After the Conflict

The dust settles,

a shaky ceasefire in the kitchen light,

the air gritty with unspoken regrets,

yesterday’s words like shrapnel

trapped within a skin of quiet.

We pick at them gently.

as if the wounds may close themselves

if left undisturbed.

Not every piece will be discovered.

Some will burrow deep, beyond grasp,

burying themselves in the softest places—

a pulse, a memory,

the fragile stretch of trust.

One surfaces, sharp and unyielding,

shredding more than it mends

as it’s unearthed.

I look for survival.

Among the wreckage,

I sift through fragmented moments,

wiping dust off fading laughter,

raising the corners of exchanged looks

to test whether they still breathe.

I locate you at the table’s edge,

collecting fragments,

attempting to stitch your heart

using thread that frays in your hands.

Each effort seems like undoing,

the cloth falling away quicker

than your calm determination can hold.

Love is a conflict we didn’t intend.

to start, an environment where even

tenderness may be mined.

How fast affection

becoming artillery,

our voices the mortar shells

They leave wreckage in their wake.

Tonight, we lay down our swords,

and yet the silence sweeps around us,

I can still feel the echo of the boom.

the murmurs of another fight

waiting beyond the horizon.

Writing about love in a manner that surpasses the clichés of red roses and blue violets took me years to perfect. Much of my work examined the flaming intensity of love—the spark of first looks, the thrill of hearts set on fire, and the deep currents of romance that sweep us away. But over time, I found myself pulled to the opposite side of love, where it becomes a sticky, unpredictable mess—a landscape as intricate as a war. My divorce undoubtedly affected this change in perspective, bringing with it a better appreciation of love’s fragility and the scars it can leave behind. In this poem, I dig into the emotional trenches where hearts stand opposed, waiting for the next siren to herald the restart of battle. It’s a meditation on the bruises love left and the unsettling stillness that remains after the storm—when both sides stand among the debris, seeking clues of what’s been lost or rescued. This poem is my effort to depict love not as a beautiful ideal but as a real, chaotic feeling.

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