July 31, 2013
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Her hand is on the door,
encased in cherry red gloves
and little diamond rings.
A fragile ruby mouth opens
and she tosses the words over her shoulder
and into an empty room:
“You can call me if it ever gets too bad.
It’s just two years,
but I’m still only a phone call away.”

Her tiny booted feet are walking away
cutting barren carpet and fresh snow
and Distance.
Somebody from old memories stands in her shadow
and studies old paint and empty coat hooks,
knowing that it really is
only two years.
It’s only seven hundred and sixty three miles;
Only thirteen hours and thirty-eight minutes by car,
nine days and seventeen hours
by tiny booted foot.

It’s only a couple million unreadable road signs,
and unreachable counties and cities and towns
and foreign states of mind.
Only two years,
a thousand unread emails,
and unsent text messages,
and unopened letters.
Two years,
and a billion blaring horns and blasting shots,
some alarm clocks and alarm systems
and ringing phones
and ticking clocks
and empty gas tanks.

Just possibly a couple more unchecked voice-mails
and off-the-hook phones
and “Hi, you’ve reached”s
and “Please hang up and try again”s.
A handful of forgotten times and lost numbers—
maybe a few more unanswered prayers,
two years,
one million, fifty-one thousand, eight hundred ninety seven minutes,
a single phone call
and one more “could you please hold for just one more second”?

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This article has 2 comments. Post your own now!

Alliance said...
Oct. 23, 2013 at 7:35 pm
Your work is extraordinary. Please continue to exist. : )
timshel-street This work has been published in the Teen Ink monthly print magazine. replied...
Oct. 26, 2013 at 3:01 pm
Oh my god, thank you so much :) You're pretty extraordinary yourself.
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