"It feels like this morning happened months ago."
"I know," you say, softly through the phone.
Our breaths are quiet, new yet old.
They're sleepy, drawing to a close.
"I wrote about you," I say, "You broke my heart. I cried."
"What happened to us?"
Our love fizzled out and died.
"Tell me, did you really punch that man?" I ask.
"All those years ago?"
"The man who got my sister pregnant?"
I do not know the answer. I may not ever know.
"Maybe." You say. You ramble a cryptic ramble
that I used to be in love with and cherish.
"We're not much older than she was then."
"We're not," you sigh.
You're a mother now, you're married now.
I knew you were afraid, and I said nothing.
"We were just kids. We were stupid."
"We were," you say.
I burned that bridge, I ran over it.
I ran from you as fast as I could.
"It's getting cold," you say.
"I'm tired."
"Go to sleep, Destiny."
"Dream sweetly."
Tell your child I say hello.
YOU ARE READING
The Listening
PoetryA collection of half-way poetry, full of words better left unsaid.
