I won’t deny it. There is music shaking in the words you choose, but it’s got nothing to do with you. Like the rain crawls up through the roots, like the tide pools pull at the moon, it’s got nothing to do with you. It’s the poetry I lent to you. It’s the quiet I pulled out of you, the way my leaving felt like charity. It was the pointed rocks of the gravel drive that tore up the soles of my feet, nothing to do with you. You did not pursue the conversation, didn’t feel like it used to. I could not say why, but the silence burned like a wildfire. We pause at a bend in the road where it skirts the edge of a meadow. I turn around to look at you and say “I don’t expect you to change. I guess we just get so stuck in our own grooves. I don’t know what you want me to tell you,” and you know I always hated men before I knew you. You remember how the mist rose off of the lake in the morning we started drinking early. It was rising, it was rising and then it just dissolved. And you know I never noticed much before I knew you. You did not reply. The conversation just didn’t feel right. I could not say what it was. You did not reply. Something half-formed you couldn’t verbalize got stuck in your sternum, and the silence burned like a wildfire.
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