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It's come to this.
Wordless dinners
averted gaze
silence-filled corners.
Blue flash of TV
dimly lights his den
while she retreats
to her own bed,
book in hand
door closed,
each alone.
She runs away
in her symbolic trophy car,
compensation for compromise.
She crosses the country
visits friends,
overstays welcome
with reluctant relatives.
She escapes
to beach or spa
tours or cruises,
anywhere but home.
Denying any conflict
he works endlessly
constantly at the office
in his substitute life.
Marriage is war here.
Drone surveillance
and covert action
follow hot combat.
Each is walking wounded
as it's come to this.