That

That love often wore its haunting masks

That the voices were deceiving

That her hungers grew weary and her passions destructive

That when she thought she finally climbed out of her sadness; she found she was 

always at the very bottom of its empty glass

That her mending of a broken jug, her replacing of a button, her sweeping under the fridge; is but her desperate compensation for all which she cannot mend, all which she 
cannot sew together, all which she cannot clean.