Closure is Always Outside Earshot

By Roy Stephen Canivel

We sat there
on the bench
that stretched like a long table
in an old mansion’s dining room.

You were looking in the distance--
at the horizon bleeding over the park--
whispering an old woman’s last words
and a schoolgirl’s confession.
I heard rumors
without the form of words
but with meaning nevertheless,
and stared at the dirt
on my shoes.

Summer blew
a chilling air down my spine
as I thought of the first time we met
and the long letters that traveled miles,
and yet still smelled like lavender.
Then your lips stopped parting,
and I never realized you left
long before you stayed.