It hurts like a noiseless piano.
Like a violin underneath the wrong set of hands.
Like a phantom music box with a broken voice.
It hurts the way a dream does when
you know it’s not real.
So we threw coins at every clock thinking it would change the ending.
Thinking it would buy us more time.
So we screamed until
we couldn’t hear the sound of each other leaving anymore.
Just the sound of our own throats disappearing from our bodies.
And we learned to stop writing about it.
And we learned to stop blaming the moon for the monsters howling inside of us.
And we learned to stop showing up in each other’s mailboxes.
The aches became nameless but they stayed in our ghost town bodies for years.
Like lovers who forgot how to love.
Like lovers who didn’t know how to remember.
Y.Z, you eventually ignore the haunting (via rustyvoices