He never called

Waiting for the next move;

The silence of a phone that never rings

feels more permanent than death.

Unlike death, it once carried hope

like unrealized surprise;

a brilliant chess move

or the bone deep ache of want

like a child of ten whose never tasted a cupcake,

piled with dark swirls of cocoa buttercream

like the oblivion of stars in an Idaho summer sky,

like a forbidden first kiss at a Catholic school dance

like the taste of the unknowns imagined

a plate of fresh oysters paired with expensive chilled Vodka

the lingering spark of a firefly in an endless Indiana field,

the snug comforting fit of a finely oiled mitt brown and worn like a race horse

grasping a catch stretched plainly centered over home plate.

The sound of discovery lifts me like a swim in warm salted island waters,

So At times I must plug my ears and hum,

to soften the outside world

 

 

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