Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Weathering

I used to be able to
talk to you,
but now I run dry.
My voice catches, shy
and stubborn. And frozen.
I was never before,
but then I misplaced you--
a friendship forsaken--
and this or that happened,
all spread out, see,
I walked left a pace or two,
you galloped away, or maybe flew,
or maybe stood still--I could never tell,
either way, a crack in the pavement
grew and grew and captured you.
Now I see only an outline of you,
a shadow distorted and gone askew,
perhaps the same person that I once knew,
but weathered by events separately,
desperately standing on shaken soil,
and I, too--have weathered a bit.
Now, I used to be able to
talk to you,
but now the words leak into the air
and evaporate before creeping to you.
This is what friends fall through, come to,
before I no longer recognize you.

--Emily

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