There is no referee in this ring and you don’t get to know the rules until you break one. Worse, your opponent is also your partner. Every uppercut, every swing, every hook you land might score points, but each strike hurts you in the end. So you put your hands up and hope that you just don’t get hit.
Accompanied by regret, you step outside. They quietly join you, reaching out to hold your hand. “I’m sorry” heals better than any ice pack, but you’re still both battered and bruised. You’ll both need to learn before one of you walks away from the ring.
Wicked storms raging
Thunder bellows, lightning strikes
This poem, written in the form of a haibun, is fictional. While it’s made up, I think that it’s something we can all relate to. After all, who hasn’t had a fight with a loved one that they regret? And what fight with a loved one doesn’t hurt you, too?
I wrote this in response to the prompt at dVerse. I’m new at this form, so I hope I’ve done it justice.