Healing the Mouth of the River

The right ear itches more. What with all that hearing what's not been said. Moist pseudonymns fit their masks for the charade. Burnt into their umbers as though they were the painting from the moment they it the palette. Dreaming in so many colors. It makes me tired. Older than I am.

He said we were close enough. No need to bring it nearer. Since we had seen and touched every edge of its razor.

He said come closer. Let me plug those holes you wear. Close the blinds that let your pain in. You're not alone. You just don't understand that it doesn't have to hurt.

And I said, no. I'm fine. And I do understand. Exactly how much hurt is required.

There are no people here. Only lovers. Shells spit out by the ocean. Reciting their dead poetry into strangers' ears.

I tried to say it didn't matter without sounding like nothing had. But the truth has its own way of answering questions not asked.

He said I could change and I assured him I couldn't. We played that game of tether ball for a while until I decided it was time to let him win.

He never said he cold help me. Just that I should help myself. And for the first time ever I agreed with him.

They always see lost in everything I think I've found.

Haaling the mouth of the river. It won't ever close. But this is the kind of wound that should stay open.