Stephen N. Dethrage
Your sharp words are a bugle sounding and my curt response is the first volley of arrows. This argument is a war and our kitchen is the battleground. Our words slash and cut, we bleed and we bleed. Love seems lost; hope has vanished. Then a lone tear, unwelcome and unbidden, streams down your cheek and our battle lines falter. Your sobs are the hoisted white flag, my embrace is unconditional surrender. When the crying stops at last and we break apart again, our kiss seals the treaty, and we survive another skirmish, scarred but stronger, tear stained but smiling still.
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