The constant nature
of his disappointment,
however quietly expressed;
The way it sheered
between hurt and anger;
The way grey eyes,
such a joy for her
in their passion and mirth,
would cool,
withdrawing acceptance,
leaving her bare
vulnerable;
The warm timbre
of playful words
sharpening,
cutting at her worth,
unmooring him
from her embrace;
The way it left them both
alone
in the same rooms
breathing different air.
The constant . . .
(Why wasn't it his grace?
his kindness?
his love?)
. . . disappointment.