Words

Words
We're walking together, but not together.
One word can change that.
"Hi."
"Hi," he responds.
His voice is deep, and it surprises me.
I have a sentence in my head...
Usually fear would reel it back in
to the depths of my tensed stomach.
But this morning I rode my bike and I was fast fast fast and
stop signs blurred red.
The words drip like cool slimy sweat from my lips.
"Do you remember kindergarten?" I ask.
"Um, we were in the same class?" He asks back.
But I know he sees me taunting him on the playground,
our short little legs running through wet grass.
I want to go back and crush those words down my little throat
and dry his silly tears.
Yesterday he said something funny in class, though, and he looked at me.
I don't think I'm blind. But I am lonely.
"You don't remember?"
I hesitate, and then pull the youthful mocking singsong thread reluctantly
from the hem of time,
words of the past unraveling the now.
"What was our teacher's name?" he asks.
"You do remember. I still think about it. I'm sorry," I say.
"Was it Ms. Penelope?" he asks.
He turns to get a drink of water.
They turned off the water fountains months ago...
I walk on,
Flexing my hands and then balling them into fists,
words crushing into my palms and crumbling from my fingertips.

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