2012-06-17
- 11:01 a.m. The silence after rushes in to drown. It has weight and it is heavy. It presses into the thin white sheets, holds us down. Slowly sounds slip back to us, the ticking of the clock we made together on our second date between laughing at the birds stealing my muffin and questions about your job. Next I hear you, your inhale, deep and then held, the fridge, a car starting, my own shoulder popping as I roll over. There are things in the silence I should have said, but it has rolled out and now you cough and a dog barks and I walk to the bathroom and turn on the tap. previous - next |