There was sadness in her voice, there were tears in mine.

The voice on the other end was cold. It had been like that for the pass few months. It’s been like that since the day she left.

She mouths her words, cold and sharp and I wonder why I bother listening to what she had to say. In being polite, I break my own heart. In being polite, I create another scar over a landscape peppered with broken shards and peeling wounds.

There is a lump in my throat and I can bring myself to ask her to stop. To stop and allow me to breathe and pick my heart of off the floor. I don’t have to hear this, I have heard it before.

But maybe I did need to hear it.

To clearly hear that it was really over and there was no moving forward nor back nor sideways nor upwards or downwards. Stagnant. Stuck. Paralysed.

I let her talk.

“I cannot see you again.” Pause. “Not even as friends. Or anything. I want you to understand.”

Understand?

What is there to understand?

Then there was sadness in her voice. As if it was something she did not want to do yet she still pushed ahead.

“Go to him, and leave me by myself,” I replied. “I’ll be ok.”

There was sadness in her voice, but she did not hear; there were tears in mine.

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For Ryan

For Ryan
by Maclean Patrick

Within the walls of silence,
I hear the voice of the void,
Within the reach of the speechless,
The cold touch to avoid,

Pass the door of despair,
I hear the reason of the fallen,
Within the glance of the innocent,
Deep calls upon deep; for time stolen,

Not the voice of the crowd,
Nor the voice of the righteous,
But the whisper of prayer said,
Eyes to heaven, voice of the gracious,

Tears to stumbling man,
Comfort in the darkest storm,
Push turn to shove; he’ll turn away,
Heart call to heart; he’ll come home.