I’m sad, she says,
her head resting
upon his shoulder.
Words greeted by silence
that hovers
like a malevolent precipice.
Why, he says, are you choosing
to make yourself sad?
I did not choose to be sad, she says.
So then, why did you say, This is sad? he says.
What? she says.
You said, This is sad, he says.
I did not, she says.
I said, I’m sad. She says.
No. You didn’t, he says.
Yes. I did. She says, sighing.
Silence weaves around them like water
filling between the cracks.
Now,
I’m angry, she says.
Shawn L. Bird 