I don't know you how I once did.
Now, I hear rumors third-party of where you are now, that you are gay, married, have a child, are living in another city far away.
Did I know you?
What do I care?
I lost grip of the strings long ago;
Echoes chase down the faceless well, fainted memory.
Remember childhood movies, dying hair, slumber parties, birthdays, writing, confiding about boys and then young men? Selling clothes, getting pierced, getting coffee, visiting church?
Remember venting and tears, anger, and rock songs driving at midnight, windows down, life wide open with possibilities?
But then, silence.
Silence and cancelled plans.
Cancelled plans and no-shows. Disappointed enough to drop your number into the toilet, watch it spin, no attempts to retrieve it.
And now, as I remember watching it swirl and swim away, it reminds me of our kinship, lost at sea. Strong memories washing away like laundry being ringed out.
Your face like chalk stains in the rain. Faintly pictured, fading with each drop, each second, each moment I don't know you any more.
Did I know you?
You're married. You're gay. You have a child. You've moved to a city far away.
You look happy on my friend's networking page. I Hope you're happy. I hope you're soul is okay.
I usually am, but it didn't feel like it today when slipped strings wrapped around and pulled me down.
On with the flash food, on with the rising tides.
The overflowing toilet, the shoreline coughing up bodies. The chalk smears set in the sun. The cloth rejecting the bleach.
All that's left is the bright white halo around the wound.