When she came in the room, he was seeking to find his lost sense of wholeness
Dropped my bag down in one city and wound up living in six others
Never underestimate a man’s capacity for longing in the face of loss
He looked at her and whispered,
Maybe never
Watch the delight on the faces of those who understand nothing but their own self-loathing
He had a mirthless inner grin that only those who had known him for years could see
They were disposed to grand gestures which signified their own shrieking soul-numbed horror
She told a long story of a man she had known in some unfeatured past she hoped to lose
Why are you running, she asked him, to which he replied,
Forgot how to walk
Just stood there slack-jawed in the middle of that place, not sure of anything anymore
Tidied up the place real nice, didn’t he? Such a shame he had to,
leave so damn suddenly
Some interpret her silent manner as a case of spiritual peace
But they only hear voices murmuring,
Lower now, slower still, wait for nothing least bit real
It was at that moment she at long last realized…
How the fragments of inner-felt glass were only wet with tears, not blood
Falling, falling, falling, falling…
“Maybe we could make a go of it; sleep now try again at light.”
Copyright 2015 by Andrew Bradford. All rights belong to the author and material may not be copied without the author’s express permission.