You recline on the couch,
declining into the ground,
positive that you can patch this up,
presenting your wife with a plaster.
The plaster is petite,
your very own unicorn,
ready for anything,
adventuring with anyone,
and she’ll leave a trail of light,
across your life,
seducing smiles back onto broken faces,
that were cracked by boredom,
the monotony of monogamy.
You still don’t talk to your wife,
you don’t acknowledge that night,
that you have both thought of often,
but cannot let escape into the room.
You hide behind your unicorn,
you both enjoy your unicorn,
but you don’t accept that your unicorn,
is not a sex toy,
and not a replacement for couple’s counselling,
but she is a person.
Your unicorn is a person.
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