Talking Flutes

Friendship, withering, struggles on its last leaf.

You never talked like this.

Not when we were young

and not when we grew up.

 

If I were to make a bracelet out of you

it would mean I’d have to let you go

along a thin gold chain, escaping on the other side.

 

No—I’d rather make a flute

so as I blow, the music plays

and comes swiftly back to me.

 

I could never contain your wildness,

but perhaps I could hear a song before you left.

I’d strike a note and you would go.

 

But at least you would leave echoes

 

like chilling crystal mirrors visiting me

on friendless nights that I can dare

to revisit memories of our lost melody.

 

It makes me wonder now as I play the instrument again—

hear its weeping, cheerless birdsong as it conquers time and space

and lulls me down to dreaming of the two of us once more—

 

it makes me wonder now if, on lonely nights like this,

if I dare to listen closely,

will I hear your crying too?

Author's Note

Dedicated to a friend of mine.