There’s an elephant in the room here, and nobody wants to talk about it. The conversations are subdued. It’s sound like the taste of water. In the absence of words, all we have is our conjecture, and you have named it a treetrunk to your rope. At the end of all things, though, we can call it what we like, an elephant it remains.

Maybe it was the image, that perfect image in my head, left in contrast for staring too intently. My silence, and your laughter. No matter your intentions, the picture lingers and will until its purge and retribution.

Two days. I’ve started counting down the hours, the minutes forming like spirals. I am a whirlwind. You are a shelter. I am a hurricane. You are nailing fast the shutters. I am tsunami. You are trekking inland.

I have seen the Grand Canyon, and it’s an honest gulf; no pretenses. It craters and stretches, a stark relief to its surroundings, the plains and hewn roads. We are perhaps both trying to cross in our own ways, mitigating damage and making plans. What do to if this bridge gives? And as you knit your elaborate parachute, I’m strapping dynamite to my chest.

I swerve in and out the margins like crazed letters in a spiralbound notebook. I don’t make sense. I’m backwards and upside down. Or maybe it’s perspective - you are moving and the universe is standing still, upside down and backwards.

It burns. Silence, still. An elephant suspended over a cliff on uneasy words, and I don’t trust their threefold cord, not with this perfect image in my head.

Again, I am a safekeeper cracking vaults. I know all the ways in, and I have taped them shut. And when you take baby steps, knife in hand, I move to the side and let you continue. If you must be decrypted, I must watch as you unravel yourself. I can’t help here. The guiderails have been set: let’s see who follows.

Let’s talk about leaving, and how things are never the same when one returns. Again, perspective. The world goes away and remains unchanged. It returns and you’re a dimension deeper. You fold in on yourself and reach around the other side to touch my shoulder. I am the same, but you’ve been startled. You drink your first cup of coffee, and you are the same, but the liquid suddenly has a face. You drive, and the road moves under you, and your destination creeps up when you aren’t looking, when you forget about the wheel and pedals. You tie a string around your finger, and alchemy turns it gold. A silver ring slips off your finger years before and feels naked without the flesh and bone and sinew wrapped inside it. You remain silent while the entire world speaks in cacophony. You become time and move with the minute hand.

You stare the elephant in the eyes, know its name, and the irises are blindingly familiar. You recognize the striations. You are a mirror, uncertain when to move, but certain that you should.

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