It’s going to rain again today. Not only here, but some place else. If I know me well at all, I will never hear the end of it. The ringing. The shredding. The silence in a distance. How everything distresses me like a noise. And the questions stay trailing, ruthless threads tied in tangles inside my head. Was it apathy, that so quickly, like a shot, you tell me it was gone? Was it hurt, to be responsible, so neglectfully had I hurt you? It’s the ones that I love that always have to hurt the most. It’s the questions that I ask that I should never try to answer.
She told me then to tell her now, tell me everything that is happened. I told her the truth, she was used to the truth, that to lie in a bed once changes nothing at all. I apologized, I would stop this only if I could, but everything was hammering down to a beat of a song and this one was already past its final verse. A heart breaks, and it was not hers; she frowned for somehow she already knew. She already knew she was lying down as replacement for somebody else.
And I tell her I do not wait quietly for the end of destruction. I tell her I write letters I will never send. Even as my journals sing songs to make an absence weep, even as they start to read like a knife, I will still be loud with the things I have left to say. Words are always winding, wanting, wounding, they let me this small act of rebellion. They allow me to pull and to push. To pick daisies in a distant garden. To reach across severe silences and to let out lasting, terrible sighs. Even though I’ll remember it never reaches the other end.
In some place else, she looks for a fuller feeling. A brighter burst. Big, boasting, battering, she blends behind, watching as she waits for her turn to dance in the moonlight. Wishing but wondering, wounded but wistful. She dances like a beacon, but she still waits for the gleam that takes her home.
In another place more, notes drip willingly through the air. It’s his notes, the ones that he paints with old colors of bitter black and a fading blue. Pain twists his memories into powerful songs and it makes for the best of his music. But he swallows lies until his fingers dance to make a darker music. And the sound slowly hollows him.
I tell her he told himself once, anything. Anything to make her feel happy.
“Why isn’t this true anymore?” she said and I sink.
She smiles and thanks me for the time and for the company. From a taxi, she gives me her number, but she must have already have known that I will never speak to her again.