Sharing hours of sleepless dreams with an answering machine, somewhere between one hundred miles and one thousand miles away, as your voice stutters with metronome perfection and you pull the sheet away from a long Thursday. You speak of apostasy and hope, and of your friend John, and of things which are more or less important to only us. Before you talk about the phone call you received from your mother you whisper an ambrosia sigh. And I know it would be a mistake for me to pick up the phone tonight.
I sit at my family’s table, rubbing my hands together to wear away the cold. Wetting my raw winter lips and watching the snow melt from my boots and puddle, brown on the floor.
You say good bye to the empty air that I sit in. The sharper sting of silence calls me back and I push play again. I’m in love with your words and the way you mispronounce Camus for only my benefit. I’m in love with your words and the arable thoughts they convey. I’m in love with your words because they are all I have from at least 300 miles away. So I push play.
Sharing hours of sleepless dreams with an answering machine, somewhere between one hundred miles and one thousand miles away, as your voice stutters with metronome perfection and you pull the sheet away from a long Thursday. You speak of apostasy and hope, and of your friend John, and of things which are more or less important to only us.
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