The Unsent Message

Her name, small print, in a yellowed clip,

like finding a lost coin in your lip

after a long, silent laugh.

Volunteers for the Fall Festival, 2003.

It’s been years. A whole life, really.

The way you just keep moving,

and some people, they stay

on a different train.

I dug up that picture later,

from the high school dance.

Both of us, stiff in rented suits,

hair gelled hard. Trying so hard

to be someone, anyone.

She had a nervous laugh, I remember.

Like broken glass. And I wonder,

did she ever figure out how to put it back?

Or did she just learn to live

with the sound?