I have found truth lies in the spaces between the words, the cracks in the pavements we tiptoe over as if we are afraid of seven years bad luck, afraid to break our mother’s back
afraid of what honesty will do, or undo, in the lives we have so carefully swathed
with our own language so fluent in things of the weather.
Unspoken words get caught in our throat; we choke on their sharp edges
and spit them back onto our plates and instead satiate our fear of the silence with words
soaked in honey that are swallowed with ease; malnourishing ourselves
with empty calories and all the while wondering why we never feel complete.
I wonder if this is why some of us like to chew on metaphors; here we can taste truth
without saying truth, here we can walk on the cracks without falling through and I think
that’s the only way some of us will ever feel safe. Maybe that’s all our lives really are anyway; a metaphor, an analogy, a parable.
Maybe none of this is real, maybe we are all just the same stories spoken to new generations. Maybe we are nothing more than a social experiment, Big Brother,
watched and scored and already lost to government control and maybe freedom
is nothing more than illusion and the last person standing, wins.
Maybe you no longer love me.
Maybe we have come too unstuck to hold together anymore.
I look at you and want to speak these things out loud, I want to tell you
how I think I’m sinking into the deepest part of myself and can’t find the way out.
But your eyes are fixed on the afternoon sun as it comes through the window
that faces west towards the ocean so I watch fallen leaves scatter at the kiss of the wind
and hear the sound of the currawong calling in the distance. You note the shifting light; perhaps the change of season is close, you wonder, and I reply, perhaps it is.