Sat side by side are two.

 

The first, a dreamer, says, "Are we friends?"

 

The second is a woman with no taste

Who says in turn "As far as I can tell."

 

---

 

"Are these the days we remember?

Waiting on the corner

The stoop settled low to the street

So we can rest our feet on the pavement

And lean on our folded up knees?"

 

"And what is this to remember?"

Said the woman with no taste.

 

"The feeling of time passing slowly.

It does not happen often lately

And even more rarely

Does it when I'm in love."

 

The woman smiles softly.

"Tell of your love?"

 

"It's a right funny feeling.

Like a mouthful of daisies

Dizzy after spinning in the garden

Falling into the flower beds to lay

But you're too joyful to smile

So you let them rest on your tongue."

 

"Peculiar indeed."

 

"Peculiar's familiar to me."

 

"So I've seen.

And what of this love?"

 

"Oh, it's like breathing

It comes so naturally

Though I hold my breath

So as the time passes

I can sigh wistfully

At the fortune of eyes

Turned towards me.

Oh, how I bask in love's attention"

 

"But this love

Who is she?"

 

"I can speak no more of my love

When words do no justice for me."

 

"I see."

 

Time passes very slowly.

 

---

 

"Why is it always in the night

That we find the darkest things?

When hidden in shadow

They should go unseen

Yet still the phantom haunts me

From the walls with a deep humming

Like he's calling out to me

To follow him home."

 

The phone hums back softly.

"You say these things sometimes

That scare me."

 

"I don't mean to

It's just

The dark does this to me."

 

"I know by now of your midnight whimsy

Seeing as you tend to call me,"

A voice teases playfully.

 

"Would you run or follow me?"

 

"What do you mean?"

 

"If I became a phantom

And haunted you as the spirit haunts me

And called to you with deep hums

From the walls and ceilings

Would you turn from me?"

 

"I don't know," she answers honestly.

 

"I would haunt you, you know.

As a phantom, from the walls,

To watch you move though the rooms

And do mundane things

And then at night call you

From the same room

So I could see you fear me."

 

"I'm not afraid.

Just sometimes

You scare me.

Alone in the dark with a phantom

Calling out to me while miles away

I lie awake sleeplessly

Wondering if tonight

You'll follow your dark phantom."

 

"Would you miss me?"

 

"Endlessly."

 

"Would you follow me?"

 

The woman with no taste says nothing.

 

---

 

"There's something beautiful

In the sway of a woman's hips

As she moves through the room

Purposeful and swift

And even when she passes over me

I get to watch her leave."

 

Next to her, the woman laughs.

"Your love again?"

 

"Ah, so the woman does know me!"

 

"And what has she done now?"

 

"It's not as she does

But as she is."

 

"And she is?"

 

"Stunning."

 

"Complimentary"

 

"She deserves nothing less."

 

"Lucky girl to have you." 

 

"She'd never have me."

 

"Sounds like she has you under lock and key."

 

"But if she knew, she'd never keep me.

Me, who speaks too sweetly--

It'd offend her that I think to hold her

That I think of her openly."

 

"She'd shout from the rooftops

To have a love like you."

 

"I am on the rooftop alone

Shouting for the world

And hoping she does not

Hear her name from me."

 

"Your pessimism is showing."

 

"I suppose dusk is falling."

 

---

 

"What say you

Woman of beautiful words?"

 

"Not I," said the woman with no taste.

 

"I need to hear your enchanting voice!"

 

"The poet asks for a lullaby?"

 

"Yes, and from a voice of an angel."

 

"I'm afraid this angel doesn't sing."

 

"Then speak again bright angel."

 

"Does your love know

Of your loose tongue?"

 

"I suppose

Though she's never spoken jealously.

For that, she'd have to want me."

 

"You've sunk too deep

Into this cold and distant love."

 

"I cannot help but lament my enchantress

Who has carelessly bewitched me.

Though I know it not with intent,

It still feels like an act against me.

And yet

I cannot fault my darling."

 

"Tell her of your feelings."

 

"Every time I try

My mouth runs dry

And my palms sweat

And the words are lost

Somewhere on my tongue

Where they sit tangible

But just out of reach.

Then once again do I sit

With my jaw dropped as she walks by."

 

"Is it her hips again?"

 

"Oh how I'd love to lose my words in her hips."

 

"You're too much,"

The woman says disapprovingly.

 

"But you love me?"

 

"As much as I'm able."

 

"You sure know how to make me feel special."

 

---

 

"When I die, promise not to mourn me,"

Says the dreamer somberly.

 

"I cannot promise you anything."

The phone echoes through the dark.

 

"Then throw an elaborate party

And hang banners from the ceiling

In all colors that I might be remembered

Lightly, if at all.

Better not to even mention me.

Yes, invite people I never knew

And celebrate your life remaining

So you need not mourn me."

 

"I'm afraid grief doesn't work that way."

 

"Then how does it work?"

 

"Like directionless suffering."

 

"When I'm gone, do not suffer for me.

Do not burden yourself to carry me.

Do not plant me as a seed and mark me.

I command you now most plainly

Do not shed a single tear,

If that tear is shed for me."

 

"You cannot tell a heart not to bleed."

 

"Ah, and you are a woman of heart?"

 

"When I can be," she says, 

for the woman had no taste.

 

But the dreamer was tired of dreaming.

"What know you of bleeding?

You who trends so lightly

And keeps such quiet hours

Knows such violent bleeding?

Do your veins open

As the streams to rivers

Sick of the tributaries

And rush for the endorphins?

Bleeding for a love

For a heart that cannot know

For a damage you dare not inflict?

Is this your heart?

Is that your bleeding?

Have you ever heard

The rhythm in your chest

The hymn of heart strings?

A heart like yours,

When have you felt anything?"

 

"Stop." A sob. "Just, stop. Please"

 

The dreamer can only listen to uneven breathing.

 

"I have no love to give

But I know

Deeply

Of grieving

As I grieve each time you open your heart to me

And hear of a love given freely

And wish that I

Could find in myself such love.

But I

The damnable I

Am a woman with no taste

And I fancy no fleeting shape

Or whispering lips

Or striking blow

Suffering not for a love

But by my own hand.

Each breath singular

And my dreams unaccompanied

That I cannot pretend to love

Force myself to hold another closely

Broken to the core of me

And beyond straightening out.

Fated alone

To loveless, bleeding me."

 

"I could love enough

For the both of us

To never be alone again."

 

"Take it back."

 

"I mean every word.

I'd say it again a thousand times,

Tell God personally,

But I'd speak it never again

If you ask me."

 

"Please, don't ask this of me."

 

"Ask what?

That you see yourself my love?"

 

"You can't. Don't say you love me."

 

"And if--"

 

"No! No, I cannot hear a word more

I cannot be that love you seek."

 

And lost for words, the walls hummed softly.

 

---

 

"Alone," says the woman with no taste.

"Alone with no one to see me."

 

Then, she clenches her teeth

 

"Then these are the days I remember.

Left on the corner

Stooped, settled low to the street

So I can rest my feet on the pavement

And lie my head on folded up knees.

 

"I am no angel of words.

I am no lover of dreams.

I yearn no hearts, yet, morose covet my own

Clutching so hard the blood leaks from my fingers.

 

"Oh to be the lover

Not loved but loving.

An ode to a different tragedy."

 

The phone rings, but the woman does not answer.

 

The walls are listening.

 

---

 

Side by side sit two.

 

'Are we friends?' they think, but never say.

 

The first, once a dreamer, is now a stranger.

 

And the second, stranger still, is a woman with no taste.