Winter

The ache of our days
is all that remains of the
memory of her.

Words without destination.

I sometimes wonder what we'll do when once we are together again, you and I.  I think we'll have some stories to tell, and conversations to have.  I think there will be laughter.

I think underneath the pleasantries there may be a certain kind of heartbreak.
We'll wonder "what if" a lot.
We won't really talk about it though.
We never do.

I sometimes wonder what we'll talk about when once we are together again, you and I.  I wonder if we'll simply "catch up".  Share the stories that don't matter, and avoid the ones that do.

I wonder that a lot actually.
If maybe it's just me.
Or maybe it's all of us.

Not having the real conversation.

I wonder when we became so polite.
I wonder when we became so afraid.
I wonder when we stopped asking the real questions, not because we didn't want the answers, but simply because we didn't want to seem intrusive.
I wonder if we ever did.

Or maybe the simple laughter is enough.
As maybe it should be.

Maybe the opinion is enough
without the explanation.

Maybe when we travel our own dark roads, we don't want a map.  Or a guide.  Or a companion.

For me...I don't think I push people away so much as...
Simply never really let them in.

Or is that the same thing?

I wonder when we meet again, if we'll make eye contact.
Or hand contact.
Or body contact.
Or emotional contact.

Or if we'll smile,
and nod

and talk about weather...
or whether...

and families
and plans
and who we were
and who we are
without each other
and why that
is such a good thing after all.

I wonder when we meet again, if we'll chase our truths with coffee and cream.
A nicotine dream,
and a pinpoint instant when we will choose silence instead of hope.

Move on
move on
move on they said...

But didn't tell me where to go...
and on felt like
such a boring place.

In the lost summer
we knew our ending would come
without safety nets.