Number 52: kind of quiet

A different kind of quiet comes, after the storm of words.
No marks left on either of us.
Only the sky is bruised.
Purple horizon, spreading, rimmed in orange.
Quiet, yes.
I longed for quiet.
Begged you for it, then, when I was shouting.
And now it’s come; a different kind.
The house creaks.
A car goes by.
Wind shakes the leaves out the window,
then dies down.
Quiet again.
Disquieting.
No comfort here.