Strange lights flicker overhead, like moths with lives eventually bound to fade. Secret messages get sent, like raindrops slow and trickling in their descent.
A whole year can truly make all the difference. I feel not just slighted but also shortchanged, and something tells me that the devil is in the details.
It punctuates those moments in days of yore: when clear blue skies would magically conjure the best of stories, and long lost loves would bravely weather through all worries.
Even the most hardworking of periods and commas could not have done it any better, always getting stuck in between lengthy sentences and lacking some grace in others’ presence.
And so I am greatly relieved that this silence is, for once, made not only by me.
What’s that riding on your everything? It isn’t anything at all.