I built a hilltop stronghold.
One brick, then two, then thousands more.
The plaster ate through my fingers.
Entrapped I am now, sandstone, fading echo.
Do you remember that time…
Sure, I do. We were going to…
Right, and then we…
That was the last night, right before…
It all goes pitch-black after that. The last parapet is set. We never fashioned another memory out of straw or iron or whole cloth. We never completed another sentence out of hunger or necessity or craving. We simply wore each other out. We used dead air as a weapon and beat each other to death with it. Silently and impatiently. We had no practical use for our ears.
Pass the salt. Those were the last words I said to her.
And she did.
And now I roam deaf, aimlessly.
Fully safe and sealed off, I am.
But my evenings fall to pondering.
What is it she would have said?
While longing for, lamenting for.
A sentence, this sentence, to…