What I Am Not Saying
Once you knew a boy and you loved him though you never said. Through so many years, you never said. It made you irreplaceable; who else could say so much with so few words? Together, you named every plant and place and animal. Instead of speaking of love, you spoke of Venice in autumn, of the cat in Istanbul. It was a language whose words were memories. It was inimitable. And yet. Now there are no memories, no places, no animals. Now there are no words with which to not say, I love you, to not say, please come back.
Photo credit: Darren Shepherd
It’s finally here. We’ve known this has been coming for a couple of days now, so we are prepared. As I’m wading through the deep murky water, I hear a shrill noise. Just as I turn, I hear it again, only slightly louder this time. I drudge through the fast-flowing water, getting closer and closer, until I see four small balls of fluff perched on top of a power box. They will be swept away by the fast running water if I don’t act soon. I find a stray basket and throw the kittens in. The fluff will be safe.
This is very beautiful.