An Echo

Somehow between us, the air became so thick we couldn't reach to the other, an insurmountable divider. And I clawed at my throat, thinking Hera must've cursed me. I can't say the things I need to. I am just an echo bouncing off your forehead that's tilted down and to the right. You can't even look me in the eyes. And so we stay this way through Easter, as we drive up 35 in dark to go visit my mother at the prison in Topeka. She is asking what's the matter, as we stare into the vending machine, I can't say the things I need to. I am just an echo bouncing off the glass into our likeness, whatever that is. Could someone look me in the eye? But then became the summer when my hands appeared so useless I felt like a little baby and my pride evaporated like the water in a skillet and you softened like some butter. We never said the things we need to but an echo fades eventually and this is such a likeness, that is what it is. You don't even need to look me in the eyes. You don't need to look me in the eyes.