the war

how goes the war?
the one between your ears?
every morning you storm the beach
"eggs today, sweet pea? cheerios?"
you start the kettle,
as if the world isn't spinning madly on it's axis
because that's always been true,
the world has always spun wildly,
we've just noticed the dizziness.

well, some of us.

strong tea and sleepy heads,

peppa pig and "count to ten then find me"
another tantrum, another cuddle
you breathe in the scent of them
try not to think about the shrapnel flying. 
don't think about that, 

think about your sweetheart back home,
how safe and comfortable she is.
how safe and comfortable they are. 
how she sings happy birthday to her lunch, 
how he is starting to look like his dad.

but you shouldn't be surprised,
when the day closes and you are left with 
what remains.

the remnants of the war.

the evidence lasts, though not forever, 
like smudgy little handprints on the mirror in your bedroom. 
eventually they'll be wiped away,
you'll get around to it.
but for now they remain.
how goes the war?