Stalemate

I prefer how it was before:
carefree, uncomplicated,
happy.
But a single all-night conversation,
a confession,
burrowed our quaint little dreamland
into a sinkhole.

I chose communication, catharsis,
knowing full well the outcome,
and now we lay back to back,
both our faces wet,
haunted so much by the present
that the joys of the past
seem like the faded sheets under us,
worn thin and forgotten,
unimportant for the
weight pressing down on them.