861. Untitled - September 25, 2015
It might have been,
probably was,
most definitely is,
fear that drove the actions --
drove her away.
Pushed out the door,
and on a plane,
and simply -- away.
Tinged with regret
and sorrow,
and the plaintive what ifs,
the possibilities are mourned
on hidden occasions,
as if never speaking of her, and them,
would make it easier
to pretend.
But it is not being alive
as much as it is pretending
to exist --
a shadow of breath
that mimics the sun not quite well,
but is pale and muted.
Holing a breath each time
the day begins,
and releasing it in the darkness of night,
unbidden to join
the other times
where silence
is really the absence of light.