This house aches
with the echoes of kisses
packed into cardboard boxes
taped with delayed reactions--

and "I'm not gonna cry"
and "I'm not gonna weep for him"
and "I'm not gonna sit here staring
at year-old pictures
at month-old pictures
at the letters we didn't have to send."

A playground swing caught
hanging in midair by ghosts of laughter
that we used to share
when there were things
we could find funny, things
we used to talk about below the screaming

above the noise of other people talking
of other people stopping to make sense.

In our quiet conversation
of nods and elbows,
we knew the ways the other turns
when the other turned over in bed
when the other wanted to look that way
to say "Hello" to an old friend
to say whatever to whomever
to see something far away
or the many steps it took before the turning
on the dancefloor to that song
that skipped on my CD and on his record
when we played it in the morning

because we needed to wake up to something.

Now, there's quiet but for the tape-pulling
midst the box-kicking that's consumed this day
between the hours of the saying

and "I'm not gonna cry"
and "I'm not gonna weep for him"
and "I'm not gonna sit here staring
at year-old pictures
at month-old pictures
at the letters we didn't have to send."

It's a promise I make
until I hear that familiar song,
kicking myself for each hum and each heave.

01/13/2007

Author's Note: Soulo dared me and I just pounded it out because I can. To ABBA.

Posted on 01/14/2007
Copyright © 2024 Cristy M.