In detentes instead of in flagrante delicto when in a coma might provide the best relief.

She rolls over. Heavy sigh.

I roll over. Heavy brow, brush her thigh.

Now we’re fighting again. From zero to sickening in nothing.

I fall. Flat. On my back.

Hands pressed tight to ears. Can’t hear.
Eyes closed to the light. Can’t see.

I’m being called a simpleton and a child and unreasonable and immature and a bastard. Even though I can’t see or hear any of this, I’m not missing anything.

She climbs on top of me, straddling the line between the fight and our reconciliation, dividing us both vertically, straight through our centers. Through our hearts.

Her hands are fists, my hands are palms. She softens, I harden until we’re grappling for one another and inverted. We both find something to hold on to and invert again.

There are soaring, flying, air metaphors but after it’s over we’re still just ground-bound and angry. Less of each but the detentes is more palatable, the flagrante not delicto and the coma: sleep.