Parsing the Silence

You're alright, he said. In a voice that vacuumed all our steps out of the rug. Combing his fingers through my well conditioned hair there was the rumble of lust. Fetal and secure in an empty bed.

Earlier we'd crossed the street from his car and met at the corner. To dine like strangers. Familiarity poured between our toes like concrete left to dry. Making us lovers. On Sunday's. And any time the worlds we cultivated had little use for us.

Shoving our fingers into those leaky dykes. Staving off floods with chewing gum.

Turing the corner on the year in the soft slippers time expressed. While it sat at its drafting board so determined to win our awe. Relentlessly playing the architect to our wrecking ball.

You're alright without me, he said.

The clock boasting pages blank enough. To claim them as my own. Tomorrow nothing more than an abadoned swing aching on a pallid playground.

And like he said. I'm all right.

Being alone.