she picks up the phone and dials
(a number she doesn't know by heart)
hello, she says, hello, he replies
(the man's voice is buoyant
upon her attention, resonant
with her affection
the corners of her maw twitch up
but only slightly, he cannot hear it
it is barred by the pride of her heart)
she continues, are you free to talk
i was waiting for you, he whispers
the faint breeze of his murmur enters
her body, lines the utopian passage
with a speed like that of cigarette smoke
(the air in her lungs turns nonexistent)
so she speaks, he listens with hushed
wind at the back of his chords
cracks pepper the tone of her speech
and she stumbles on the unexacting words
(but he thinks that it is the most tragically
beautiful sound in the world, and he
conceals the itch circling his palm
the dullness chilling down his spine)
hours later, the rant is a conversation
about medium rare steaks, apple tarts
and that old man in a red dress dancing
down the shady street they were once at
they hang up the devices smothered to
the side of their mirth, fluently
(irresolutely)
they peeled them off their ears and
laid them down on their shivering chests
(are they breathing, are they not)
they go to separate diners with that
extra bounce in their step, and a
daze in their eyes
the next time they convene
it will be as if nothing had transpired
in memory, there were no tears
no faint yelling in the background as
they utter their mutual condolences
none but the quiet, unsaid melancholy
of 'you', 'me'
of 'us'
