As you toddle like a buoy, greedy girls scoop shells by the bucketful and I lie on the sand, blending in. The cicadas scream in the moss-dripping trees as Winter clatters in her pool. Tomorrow the black will ink everything out.
Her voice slid into my ear; she wished that I would write her to give her news from home. I sat, armed with pad and pen. The stark sheet glared, a beacon waiting to be lit.
The events of the year bobbed through my head, fat balloons with neat strings waiting to be released. Yet I, always brimming with words, could not bear to set down even the most insignificant happenings.
She had no right to them. She should have been here, writing to friends afar, sending love from home. She should not wander away and then wonder what's become of me.
Folding the naked sheet, I slid it into the envelope and sent it first class to the new world. A world without me.
It's louder than anything. Dishes fall and shatter noiselessly, the vacuum's muffled, the spark of a match is unheard, the television drones on, muted. Silence booms. It wormed it's way over cleaning rags and grocery lists, straight to my heart and ate it.
I choke on the air thick with the stench of surmise. Biting into that bastard apple made my teeth ring cloyingly. A simple optic scan reveals nothing. You must peel me. Pared of my skin, is my viscera a revelation? Does the tinny taste of my heart bring you relief?