Conversation

It's all been locked by some incantation you and I made years ago. And now we can't remember. The lawn the hall our table our common places they're all sewn up. We feel fooled by our dark selves. We fling words at the backs of moving walls. Even talking doesn't seem to help. It seems to make things worse. In the hallway our words meet and spark and disappear but they haven't gone. In the air hang silent tumblers of language, new worlds with stronger locks. We'll never make the keys because lets face it, we just haven't got that kind of time. So we play scrabble by the fire each word feigning innocence while we flip our heads and laugh. We just imagined it! Life's so ..... ? so .... quaint?! But we didn't but it's not. We've lost the way and neither of us left red ribbons on the branches of gossipy trees. We sit at the table where the vast crucified web of conversations stretch and bounce between us, flinging your great-grandmothers teapot about. It's ringing like a telephone - and we don't answer.