Whence once I heard the faint whisper of the rushing wind
It formed a name in the air, whispering
The faint decibels that your soul voiced
Called out to me, unheard and unvoiced
Sweeping right back I searched for your figure
Forming shapes in the clouds
Awaiting your selfless shoulder
“Oh brother!” I cried out, “Where had you gone?”
You curved your lips and embraced me for long
My head felt light. My soul lingered
And I drifted to another world
To a scape bygone
As toddlers, I saw us playing on the hill tops
Amidst wintery clouds
I saw me run after you and fall on the ground
And suddenly you turned, with concern on your brows
Chasing back and picking me up
Brushing my tears and swinging me up
I saw us race to the school in the mornings
And I saw you hold my hand while returning
But then I felt my hands bereft
My head felt light. My soul revered
I saw me race alone to the school
And I saw me fall and chase the lonely cloud
I saw your face, and its obscure lines
My wet eyes rained bringing me back to this time
Sweeping right around I again searched for your figure
In vain I tried to form some shapes in the clouds
And then I heard the whispering wind rush in
Blanketing the clouds and taking them in
I heard no whispers, no names and no sound
“Oh brother!” I cried out, “Where have you gone?”

Thump,
           thump,
                    thump,
           the soft,
steady
           beat
                      of a drum.
                                 Calm,
                                            gentle
                                 measured,
                      exhales.
Deep
           throbbing,
                      rhythmic
                                 perfect.
                      Consistent
                      rise
           and fall,
the intake
           of August air,
release
           of pain
and grief.

“His voice became taut as he ran his hand down his jawline and back to the mug in front of him. It was empty, but he held onto it like the warmth from the black coffee hadn’t left it and stared into the bottom as if looking for a world beyond where he was. 

'Tell me,' he breathed, 'was it your mother or your ex-lover who first taught you that you ought to be afraid of heights?
Who told you that the fall would be so bad?
Do you ever think it’s unfair to let others around you jump when you can’t even work up the courage to climb down the ladder to catch them at the bottom? Forget falling as fast as I did, but did you even look over the edge?'
Her breath caught in her throat as she fought tears and opened her mouth to explain as he cut her off,

'Who taught you that you should fear the places you try to forget instead of making peace with them?
Why won’t you tell me about your grandmother’s house or where you spent eighth grade?
Why do you feel like you can’t heal or forget or at least be comfortable with the reality that you never want to go back?
Why do you feel more at home in a city full of strangers than in a room with people you’ve grown up with and how come you won’t let me be your comfort?
Is it really so bad that you’d rather spend a night in a city that never sleeps instead of a night in with me?
How did it get to this point of uncertainty?
How did I not see this coming?'
He cleared his throat as he tapped his fingers against his mug, placing each finger against the ceramic as though it were the neck of a guitar. When he spoke again it was thin,

'Where did you learn to have a high-speed come apart every time things are looking up?'
His chin lowered but his eyes stayed on her face, pleading for so much as a change in her expression but she remained silent, the lump in her throat threatening tears at any second. 
Finally he croaked,
'I just wish to be the place your heart finds solace, I just want to give your soul a rest. I know it’s cliché but I just want to be your favorite.'"