I hate it when our conversation grows as cold as old stone soup 

and all we can think to say to each other is did you get the stamps to pay the bills 

and listen to how the fire grows low

so low we can hear the June bugs knock against our window

and i suppose it wouldn’t  be of any use to look for garlic scapes in our kitchen garden…would  it?

and i suppose not… but really darling it’s not as though the window breaks

or the world is coming to an end now

is it?

we can always listen to fireflies whistle for the stars