The Good Fight

We don’t throw plates in this house.

We rinse them. We stack them.

We argue about the sponge like it’s a religion.

You say I squeeze it wrong

I say you leave it in the sink like a tired animal.

﹁﹂

Some nights the fight is small,

a teaspoon of salt left out,

Your shoes blocking the hallway

like little stubborn guards.

﹁﹂

And still, when the kettle clicks,

You hand me the mug you know I like

the chipped one with the crooked handle

no speech, no apology parade.

﹁﹂

I used to think love meant fireworks,

But fireworks are quick,

and honestly, loud.

We are more like the porch light

that keeps working through bugs and bad weather.

﹁﹂

We call each other back from the edge

with dumb jokes and half-smiles,

with “wait, come here”

when someone’s about to slam a door.

﹁﹂

This is the good fight:

two people learning the shape of each other’s fear,

and choosing again

to stay in the room.

Not perfect. Not holy.

Just here.