What if

Startled awake to the faint hum of the fan: no such thing as silence, now. The cat snores, a plane flies overhead. The house settles around me.

I remember the sound of silence, pressing from all sides, deep in the night. I remember the blue lit street below, the cool window beneath my fingers.

What if?

That’s the phrase that woke me.

Light plays on my walls, sneaking through slits in the blinds as cars pass by, as neighbours turn on porch lights. Outside the streets are snow quiet, holding their breath.

What if?

The bed creaks as I shift, uncomfortable, to avoid the question. Will myself back to sleep. Sleep.

I remember the sound of silence.

If digital photographs could fade with use, could bend at the edges or show my fingerprints, they would be falling to pieces. If holes could be born in treads of your thoughts, along oft revisited moments and favourite memories, mine would be worn through. When all that’s left is ghosts and memories, when I’m haunted by questions and possibilities, it is the longest night.

What if?

Sleep is impossible now, the question too insistent, pounding through my head and echoing in my spine. Drowning out the sounds around me with it’s incessant demand for an answer. I remember the silence.

I climbed up a mountain, and looked off the edge
At all of the lives that I never have led
There’s one where I stayed with you, across the sea
I wonder do you still think of me?

1 Comment

Other Links to this Post

RSS feed for comments on this post. TrackBack URI

Leave a comment