Some eyes open like black holes,
gravitationally throwing memorial stones through a moment,
letting time break a silence that lingers in every muscle,
every finger tip
for a soft crash of acknowledgment.
Other eyes move like flat lines and we must guess. Ache drips from our palms like candle wax, hot with the stench of regret
and blame.
I remember the first taste of his
time, brutal pine in November’s icy driveway. I know his eyes opened
to our flavor together,
but now he walks in such a quick
rush; as if the Earth might split without eating him up
and he talks,
like voices do
when they should,
but not one blink wrinkles,
or speaks,
or loves.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 