Making Up

And the silence was huge,
like the space inside a rotten seed, or
a gutted house. We ran around
with brooms and dust-pans, cleaning up.

And the arguments were neatly folded away;
The waiter left with the pain on a tray.
maturity is a strange morphine;
most druggies have no excuse, they say.

This aint a Woody Allen movie;
The timing doesn't have to be right.
The fear I respect, so I can't answer
"did I ever have you, to lose you with this fight?"

Can I tell you what I should?
(Not permission, though that also)
My tongue has aged, and turned to wood.
Tell me, does it matter that I am no longer

delicate?