The feeling drained out of me. Left was a plate of yesterday’s stars.
Take a picture. Print it. Burn it. Smash the ashes with a sledge. Imprison those remains under a square of shattered glass.
Use that as a placemat under your broth. Make the call.
She answers. The soft fur of her voice has changed to raspy sounds. Difficult to understand, harder to determine why. Gaining volume, losing subtlety.
I wonder about a future but can’t climb out of the past. A time of sharing, a time of agony. A space heater in my ice cave.
The call is silent pandemonium. No internal structure. Gather the pieces and remember where I am. Squirrelize the wonders of her eyes. Look away and then try to look back. Homesick for a sick home.
I compose another verse of my symphony of sympathy. My heartbeat is my breath. My crutches are lost. The spring-like sprouts of hope flatlined to etched lines of dried out dead cells. The needle of my compass has fallen off.
There’s the click. We’re disconnected. My solidarity, my everything – gone. Here I am again . . .
a chirp-less cricket.