The call came, but I was unsure whether it was meant for me,
Although he knew about the frantic sleepless nights,
And the question, the endless question
That never seems to have an answer.
And the once jovial bottles of vodka
Rolling around lost under the bed,
with the peas.
A man’s voice, familiar, yet not,
Gentle, yet mocking as if daring me to remember
Who or what he was, and why.
But he knew that I was waiting,
He knew and would have found me anywhere,
At the bottom of a lake, the top of a cliff,
In a lightning bolt, that phone would have rung,
And wherever, however, he knew
I was afraid to answer,
But I did.
He keeps ringing now,
From time to time,
And it’s always the same.
The same voice.
The same fear,
The same silence beyond the conversation
Which I can hear,
Because he is the silence,
The gaps between which I could slide,
And just slip away,
To somewhere else.