The truth is, there is a space between us,
where once, we breathed each other’s air.
We try bridging it by planting flowers in between,
the scent a snake coiling around our fingers.
Our garden grows into a wilderness,
twigs and leaves breaking beneath our steps.
How we build walls to shield against odor and cracks
only to find towering fences and houses
that belong to someone else.
Not even our breath matters now. Only a gap.
A little more pronounced, a little less fatal.
Montage Vol. 11 • September 2008
