Ink Stained

I woke up feeling as though something had changed
and was surprised to find that there was no window
to the right side of my bed, but on the left instead,
and I couldn't believe that I wasn't angry at someone
so horrible, but was overwhelmed by a sense
of empathy instead, even though he didn't feel bad
and made it clear.

And there was a song on the radio I hadn't heard
in years and his lips were moving to the lyrics,
but no sound came out and I thought my lips were
like that too, chapped from winter and dehydrated
from a lack of water.

We communicated through a sign language of our own
and I begged him to let me stay, even though his eyes
told me it was time to go, I wanted to make him say it,
just so I could see the frustration on his face and know
that he was a human and did have feelings
other than despondency.

Time slipped backwards through a wormhole;
I was in another bed and there was another him and
there was a window on the right side and a song I'd
known all my life on the radio and he spoke to me
but the white noise drowned him out and we didn't have
a sign language of our own so my chest caved in
under the weight of realizing the things
I'd never know.

I felt bad for everyone I'd ever met, even though
they seemed happier than me, it was a quiet
contentment that I couldn't understand. The understated
way they held their heads higher than I'd ever dare
and hugged each other from behind at the kitchen sink
or spat sunflower seeds on the front porch watching the
storms rolled over the wheat fields.

And I started a letter of apology, an internal rage
of envy that cultivated crops of sadness over porches
I'd never sit on and turned into a list of things
I'd never understand, no matter how long I watched them
dust the mantle, I had raced myself to the stairwell,
but I couldn't find the crawlspace.