We throw our feelings around like whispers
along a string and two cups; in garbled sound,
we sing of sweet nothings and swerve around
what loud troubles and traumas we hold dear.
We’ll play pretend as rattling cups become calls
to whomever we find willing to lend an ear;
but we’ll lie and make our hell seem much better
than the journey that’s now like an endless fall.
With hope—or rather the lack thereof—we pull the string
and wait for a pull from the other end. With hope,
we put a dismal cup to our crying ear to cope
for the emptiness we find absurdly suffocating.
And even with the string taut, there’s deafening
silence between two lost souls simply waiting.
Flipped Serendipity 