at four in the morning

i'd hear

the stumble of his boots,

in the late night,

after

the dying of his car,

the light

go on

as he climbed the stairs,

his body heavy

with

the life he chose,

trying so

hard to be quiet,

but we all heard him.

and then

the door would

close.

would there be words,

would

another argument

unfold?

with pillow

over our heads, we

prayed otherwise.