Anger, tangible in the tense room,
the sense of somebody being sentenced to doom,
a palpable temperament fissioning thro' the air,
the sudden ripping, the frantic closing of the tear.
Nobody's crying, not right now, not any eight
seconds from now, not when it almost seems like fate,
but even though its appearance takes the form of something
doesn't mean it is, and the sight of a bronze polished ring
on his finger only serves to make him angry. But he
needs to learn that she doesn't belong to him, that she
is her own person in her own time.
And though her life often has no reason or rhyme,
it is not an excuse to become what you are not,
and she will not, can not, stop him even when he fought
himself, even when the punches always end up bruising his
face with enough distraction, and it always seems to fizz
up eventually, bubbling over and staining the floor.
And he says, 'certainly not' and points to the door.