Between Bruises & Blooms

Even after
we ran out
of things
to say,

there was music.

A song
sent across
a screen.

Then another.

Little three-minute
bridges
between people
who no longer knew
how to reach
each other
without hurting.

Maybe that was
always easier
for you.

Let somebody else
say it.

Borrow a chorus.

Send a melody.

Let another man's voice
carry whatever
your own
couldn't hold.

I listened.

Of course I did.

I searched lyrics
for hidden meanings.

Asked songs
questions
they could never answer.

Do you miss me?

Do you regret it?

Do you still love me?

Did any of this
mean what
I thought it meant?

Music
never answered.

It just kept playing.

And eventually
I learned
that sometimes

a song
is only a song.

But sometimes

it's also
the last language
two people share

after they have
run out
of us.