the night is dark around me like a shroud. i want to open my throat and sing, but my vocal chords are locked in place – it is not a time for melody. the times when i used to spin canticles for him are long gone, although in my mind they replay like they were yesterday.
a hand falls on my shoulder and i know it instantly – fire and ice can’t exist simultaneously in anyone’s touch but his. hey there, nightingale. i say nothing – if i open my mouth i will bring forth song, and song may make him love me again. i don’t need that; i don’t want that. (i want that.) his fingers wrap around my collarbones like they are his to take (and they are). what’s on your mind?
i want to tell him so much: i am thinking of the way your lips taste, i am thinking of the way i am like poison, i am thinking of every time you ever said “i love you” and wondering why it always sounded like a whimper. i am thinking of all we lost, all we could have had had we had enough courage to take it in our fists. lastly i am thinking of you. always of you. aloud i say nothing – my head was his business once, but no longer. he would get tangled in the thickets there and bleed to death on the thorns.
he knows my silence well – he and it have a long-standing acquaintance, more so than he and my music. he squeezes my shoulder, plants a kiss like a flower on my head, and walks away. he is gone, thank God. (i wish he would come back.)
- 10:13 canticle // abby // prompt for anon