The sun is dim and the sky a painted
canvas of mellow indigo. There are no
stars in the night, only blobs of missed paint,
flaws. The night echoes with hollow sighs and
we are the ones filling up the abyss. Our whispers
sound like blades and our tenderness mistaken for
manipulation. You hold my hand, fingers slip in
crevices too empty to be filled. Why did he do it,
you say, voice brims with tears. I shake my head,
unknowing. We stare out into space, celestial wonder,
try to know worlds more than our own, try to be
something more than this. Try to fill us up before
we are out of anesthesia. When it’s time to go,
goodbyes leave lips louder than the songs of the
wind. We repeat them, over and over, because
we are trying to hear them from him, we are saying
them to break silence. We don’t want to leave like him,
throat tied in knots, mute, with no whisper of a goodbye.