O. and I go in circles.

Understanding chasing missed

opportunity to reconcile what

has always gone wrong for us,

somehow. Me, talking in ways

and with words that sail past his

ears to land somewhere behind, far off

in a heap, rusted and sharp. And I

wonder, always curious, if our

tongues have never spoken the same

language, our ears deaf to the other’s

call. Too separate, too far gone to

make it back, whole, one, from two.