Hearing the Fall

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Sometimes the sounds we hear, no matter how horrible to remember, are preferable to the ones we are left to imagine.

Submitted: May 10, 2008

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Submitted: May 10, 2008

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Hearing the Fall

 

This morning we would have stayed in bed

the way you liked, curled up in our blankets

and tragically in love like lazy Sid and Nancy

who purr as they snore in the corner.

 

We would have pulled the warmth

to our chins and gone back to sleep

to the pitter patter of rain that falls

outside in early dawn.

We would have dreamed about the day

the pitter patter would be little feet,

inside,  demanding we awake.

 

I wish I could stay sleeping

the way I wish we were still them,

but I can’t be the both of us.

I can’t hold myself and wrap

my own arms around my own body

in the way you did so well.

I can’t enjoy the rain

without you to make my ears love

the dainty melody.

 

So, I get up.

I start another day at four a.m.

after going to sleep at 3:58

 

I go outside.

I witness clouds that camber to the ground,

bulging like a hammock filled with cloudy boulders.

The water is about to be released.

 

A drip on the sidewalk is followed

by another that falls an inch away.

Now I stare at vacant, pupil-less, iris-less eyes

that gaze at me from below and remain

secluded in an oasis of dry cement.

 

Steadily now the heaven’s leak,

but every drop I hear sounds different

as if each drop screams in it’s own tone

of voice as it plummets to the ground.

 

One yelps. One wails. One shrieks.

Another’s screech breaks one’s squeal

as they fall from clouds

like people from skyscrapers.

 

They fall louder than you did,

but how could they not when your fall

didn’t make a sound besides the soft whisper

of your feet swaying inches above the ground?

 

The rain grows fatter and the voices breed like rabbits

and like crickets joining on the sounds resound around me

as one moans, one grunts, one howls, one growls,

but they all splat.

 

Why didn’t you?

 

Could you not at least give me closure

with one simple sound?

Raindrops I have never met before

give me sound and sound again,

but you knew me years

and gave me those trips

where our lives were in danger

and we called it “having fun.”

You gave me roses just because

you were an idiot.

You gave me a diamond

the size of the rocks I threw at you

when we were little and you said

I throw like a girl.

 

Yet you couldn’t give me a single, solitary sound

like the snapping closed of a book finally finished

or the squeak of a fixture turned when a shower is done.

Like the gunshot that manufactures a hole in a head

or the slump to the ground after a wrist is slit.

 

No, no, no. That’s not for you.

While I slept two rooms away,

as if you were trying not to wake me,

you silently dangled beside my hanging plants

like that marlin we caught at the bay

and you made me pose beside

like I was thrilled with our murder.

 

If only I had seen you envying his situation.

 

The dark cement spreads more at my feet,

but the eyes, your eyes, still stare.

I sense your gaze even when I look away.

No matter how many I lose,

I know you’ll always be there first.

You’re the first drop that fell

with the softest sound that deafened me.


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