"You don't have to keep reminding me about it." he said, his voice coming through the receiver in hisses and pops like an old vinyl album.
And I heard a note of malice that couldn't be blamed on the poor reception,
as I crouched in the corner of the yard straining to hear.
Pulling up clovers by their fragile stems and beheading them, without stopping to look first if they were the lucky ones or not.
The whole night seemed to bend with the terrible sadness of this conversation.
The horrible injustice of love stepping lightly from the door, in a room where I never knew love existed in the first place.
How awful it was to find out too late.
After I had already said goodbye, and left feeling right.
Feeling like I had given everything I could, and was never met halfway.
How cruel to find out later that love was there all along.
Lurking in the shadows and under the bed
In the quiet moments where no one spoke
In all the words we never said.
How terrible to leave, and find out all too late that you were just as much to blame.
Maybe not for holding back,
But for not seeing what the person you claimed to love
Was silently screaming.
I want to say I'm sorry, but that's such a stupid thing to say.
How do you apologize for blindness? For deafness? For a hollow victory in the face of a mute opponent?
Instead I say nothing as I pull up more clovers and feel embarrassed by the stars all watching me,
As he sighs and hangs up the phone
A deafening silence, following an inaudible click.
Our last conversation is over.