Love, #7.

She imagined them like puzzle pieces:

Holding gently to one another with soft sighs,

Fogging the windows of a fine little house with the words of affection exchanged between them.

The phrases that spilled out where never the same,

Yet always radiated that equivalent feeling of bubble stomachs and long-forgotten jokes.

She stays this way for weeks and weeks, months at a time-

'Till it all crumbles over this and that and once again they're happy-smiley like before.

They never talk of bad times, only little things; of buttons and cats and colours.

So here she stays, endlessly-

Her one relief from stressful moments;

Hidden in the conversations on anything but the truth.