I talk local politics
over beer at the bar.
Issues so important.
Issues not so important.
Issues that never change.
You, at home.
Living your life
in my absence.
Issues so important.
Issues that never change.
I come home.
You are on the phone,
laughing the way you did –
(do you remember?)
– that way you laughed
once upon a time
with me:
spring days by the river,
summers at the spillway.
Kites flying around us
bits of laughter
caught in the wind.
It breaks the heart.
So much silence.
So much lost.
So much.
Not enough.
You hang up the phone,
and the laughter stops.
I mention my conversation.
You nod out of habit
and ask, nonchalantly,
if I'm drunk.
I can not answer
because all the air
has left my lungs.
I can not breathe
without your air,
filling me.