Stone

Do you remember when you said you didn’t want to know

the day the canyon between us

was solidified by the piercing revelation of no return?

I picked up the phone anyway

small talk to dress up the goodbye we both knew was permanent.

Do you remember when we both fashioned elaborate lies,

recalibrating memories,

hoping to conceal the future we both knew was set in stone?

I picked up the shovel anyway

furiously digging the sand for gold.

You can’t remember the day you didn’t say the last goodbye,

the day my shovel broke into pieces,

the day you fell into the earth’s core.

So I picked up the ticket,

running from the circus of idle gossipers masquerading as martyrs.