What’s Left of Us

If you could hear the last need as it echoes endlessly from me to you,

Would you hear the stifled childhood scream as it penetrates you?

Would my words have the honest intensity of my feelings?

Would the emotion come tearing through, unbridled, undeterred, unfettered?

If there was no fear of fall-outs, of hurt, of betrayal, of vacuum,

Would my expression lash out angrily as you string the sentences together?

Would the insane promise of comprehension last across ages and irrationality?

Would the words quietly reach you, and land on earnest understanding?

If ink could carry all the guilt, the nonchalance, the nothingness of us,

Would it tell you, how the empty hollow left inside of you has crushed me?

Would it show you my crevices, and their jagged, insistent, desperate stories?

Would it smudge the distance between rotten you and rotten me?

A question, and the hope for its answer, is all that’s left of you and me.