I talk to myself in an echo chamber, so, the only voice I
hear is my own, when I still wish I could hear yours. Maybe it is still there
somewhere, rebounding off the walls of this museum I call my brain, most
apparent in the dead of night, in the silence the world sometimes brings after
sunset when the echoes are least unbearable, and I can suppress my thoughts as I
search for yours, this late in this dying year when we are condemned to look
back at what we’ve done, and who we’ve become; the echoes not as acute as the
need for me to listen for the more subtle voice I know must be there, not so
direct as conversation as we once had, and yet, an unbreakable connection you
do not wish for but most somehow tolerate. I listen for you to speak, to whisper
in the cacophony of echoes, to relate something I might otherwise miss, a piece
of this history collected in my mind, an exhibit I must revisit each night when
I close my eyes and listen for you, praying not to lose your voice among the
echoes of my own.
No comments:
Post a Comment