Hours Later

Plant me in this naked garden. Growth a drunken whisper at the edge of our ears. Chasing through this spandex mausoleum. So fitting the way they mistake it for my skin.

Onomatopoeia. His words sound just like what they mean. Especially when he tells me. Especially when he tells me he's not changing.

Not that I wanted him to. Maybe just a little bit. Never who he is. Only how he looked at me. Keys in broken locks. Lips without a mouth. Finders Keepers. His.

His every word always sounded just like what it meant. Every syllable a colder wind. He'd say he didn't know, but didn't want to is what I heard. He'd say he was hungry, but the skeleton had other opinions.

And the bone laid itself there between us. While we debated what shade of white is was. And the bone seemed most to want to be a weapon. But fighting seldom suited us. So we buried it there and waited for it to grow its roots.

Nothing ever took longer than when we had to dig it up. Growthless and barren.

Wisdom fashioning its heavy nooses.

It was hours after that it occurred to me the answer to our riddle.

Just that there was none.

No test. No proof. Only the weight of these questions as they threaten us with knowing.