finding the thread

i do not see you; i do not see me. we are nowhere; i am no one. there is nothing here, nothing inside, nothing worth speaking of to anyone. it is dim, there are figures in corners, but nothing is firmly outlined. there is no definition in this space, there is only the blur of grief.

____________

my favorite number is 12; the number i cannot stand is 2. but this is only today. today is the 24th, my favorite number multiplied by the number i cannot stand. today everything crashes in on itself, implodes, is not real.

was it ever real?

____________

i'm trying to find the thread, the point of unraveling. now i'm not certain that such a point even exists. this was a woven thing, a made thing, that was ripped and destroyed in a matter of moments. if the color changed in previous months, it still coordinated with the rest. if there were changes, they were not noticeable enough to cause alarm. but now the cloth is wasted, clouded with dust. the pattern is strong and beautiful still, but there is no use for it. what was created has been left to fade. the looms are quiet, but grief swirls through the dust motes like a hand. our hands are still, but the song in my bones is like screaming.

____________

yesterday i turned around because i heard the music. i backed up and put my bags in the backseat, stealing a glance into the car next to me. a woman sat in the driver's seat with the liner notes in her lap, reading along to the song: the beauty / oh, the beauty / why it matters. i almost knocked on the window, almost pointed to her stereo with one hand, my other hand over my heart.

i know this song, i would have mouthed. i know this song. i've sat in my car listening to it, too. i know. it's hard. you're not alone. i'm not alone. this song . . . i know. we're going to be okay.

i got into my car and squeezed my eyes shut, imagining the scene. i shifted into reverse and backed slowly out, crying silently as i went.