She used to talk to me.
About her life.
Happily sometimes,
Sometimes not.
Scenes from her inner landscape.
I would marvel at the delight she took
In her own wordplay
Watching her mouth and eyes dance,
The sounds in her words rising and falling,
Like shadows on the wall,
Never failing to enclose me.
But after that night I took her to the cafe
To listen to the cellist
Tell his sad stories with a reedy moan,
To the un-syncopated rain,
Her voice has gone.
She speaks not to me.
She has taken to leaving me scribbled clues
Of her inescapable musings
On random shreds of paper,
Like breadcrumbs of thought,
And has me clinging
For the lost embrace
Of what she no longer says.
-LFB, 2010
