By Seth Trochtenberg
Do you live?
I think I do.
I’d scream in joy.
I don’t remember that.
So you rest in memories, and find peace there?
I still see much, within the memories that is.
And find peace?
I find little.
Do you find me among it all?
Occasionally.
At times?
I know you, and so know nothing—a ghost in photographs.
I am fathomless and incapable of making out what I encounter.
I am haunted.
You have learned your limitations.
I’ve always been aware of such truths: you don’t aspire to such depth.
Great work!
You mock my efforts in praise, and somehow do it earnestly,
but to that end there looms just a question.
And that is?
Why did you endure and suffer; so that I may only mourn you?
I worry that was three questions, actually. You ask too much.
You are a mute. I speak enough for us both, so that words are still said.
Silence speaks for me.
I suppose so, but not well.
See, you extend yourself foolishly, and consider yourself profound in doing it.
I only consider myself, neither profound nor foolish
or any other demeanor you insist on me.
You do only consider yourself.
I do, if only because you say so. Does that make me the villain still,
even in my own story?
By silence, I am tied by jagged ropes to rails, and the train chugs on
the wrong track, mocking me as it passes by like unbridled time.
Hello?
Ah, I did miss these chats, like before we were strangers