The Gynecology of Sound

Letters softly painted on the darkness. Cryptically they mirror my thoughts and I attempt to decipher. The x. The o. The period. An alphabet soup in my heart.

Knee to chin. Resting. Thinking. As though conclusions are waiting on my cue. To at last take the stage. Stifle us all with their Shakespearian monologue.

It's not a lie. It's what I wish were true. As the grass grows over and the mourners dwindle. The funeral is living. Never sure you'll ever want to again.

I tell myself I'm better now that I've gotten used to life without. And I want to believe it, but I don't think I ever will.

Letters scrape their shadows across my eyes in messages not unlike people.

To see. To feel.

But nothing to hold. Or hold you.

Just voices I'm only now realizing I never really heard.