voicemail

When I pause to think about it and how you didn't answer your phone, the inner workings turn to mush. You understand don't you? Inserting commas into incorrect places as the furnace creaks with life, cracking, bending and sounding like burglars in the room next to mine in the dark. I'm in a place in which I can't drop the unanswered call and that five years haven't passed and we're still walking down the street, heads turned up the leaves shaking with shivering blur of noise as I balance on the curb telling you that everything is beautiful and you understand. At least understand who I am to say this and it was all before I went out and got jaded like you did and I miss that. I do. I can picture it like my eyes are sunshine through a prism and out the other end comes the darkness splitting up the headlights and the moonlight and street lamp down the way. The record, with a hinting scratch, rolls round and round and fills the room with the sounds of Iceland and echoes and a fullness which has yet to be recreated.

It all makes me so self-conscience and it never used to. How the fear seeps in and fills the place in which I am held and have somehow started to leak bits and pieces onto the floor. I scowl more and shiver with anxiety and wonder why. It's why I'm afraid to be alone by myself. Because this always happens. I never took that roadtrip. And I wouldn't have been a crybaby if you had answered the phone. Because sometimes it's just you I want to talk to.