You try to tell yourself the things you try to tell yourself to make yourself forget.
– Counting Crows
We sat on the hood of your car like it was our own Little Bighorn, and I finally told you once and for all the dozens of things that had sat and rotted on my tongue for months. And your answer, Space Man, was to ask for some breathing room. As if you had been inexplicably crowded by your own brooding solitude over the past year. As if I might hold some tether I did not know how to let go of.
I wish I could say it was the last time I saw you, but it wasn’t. I wish I could say I told you goodbye under all those stupid stars, but I didn’t. Not yet. But when I kaleidoscope back now, the pieces fall together with a nearly audible click, and that was the first one. Your constant silence. My dying heart. An ebony sky spreading across the lake like a mourning song.
The moon spills over
a noisy desert owl
questioning no one.
Toni has us pondering communication and silence for our Haibun Monday. Come play!