The voices float past
Like the fading rays of light from long dead star:
I tell you I want kids, and a house
With a white picket fence
And a tree swing.
You laugh and say you’d rather die.
And I can’t tell if it’s gratitude or regret that tightens my throat,
And burns my eyes,
But surely it’s some measure of each.
For here I am, painting the fence,
Outside a house
Overflowing
With everything I ever longed for.
And these voices have come only to whisper
That you, too, have gotten your wish.
