a promise

There were so many promises, 

but the one that made me weep today

was this: she said, "We will never run out of things to say."

I was so sure we would, or I would. 

How could I possibly entertain and captivate someone 

after I told all of my classics: 

the time I fell out of my chair on the first day of teaching, 

winning all of the tennis intramural t-shirts in college, 

what happened to me on September 11th. 

How could the day to day discussions 

of life sustain a relationship?

But they did.  We never ran out of things to talk about. 

Sitting on the porch, walking down the block. 

There was never a numbed and silent long distance trip, 

nor were there dinners out where we just stared at the food, 

like so many couples do.  We talked, and talked and talked. 

Words came easy to us, even the hard words in hard times. 

And laughter was a close second.  

She always twisted us back home. 

But now, even after all of those years 

and all of those shared experiences, 

what would I say to her?

How are you?  How is your job?

Your house? Your garden? 

All of those are tied inextricably to her new girlfriend.

How am I?  How is my work? 

What have I learned about myself? 

What am I doing for fun? 

All of those are tied inescapably to the smokey ash 

of my personal Judeo-christian calendar. 

Except I do not know where to put the year zero: 

the day I met her or the day she left me.

Either way, even as my life and the possibilities of growth 

all still swirl around what she gave me, 

or what has been forced to change in her absence, 

I have nothing to tell her.   

And nothing I am able to hear from her. 

I cannot believe this, the best promise of all, 

the most comforting assurance 

in my life, is no longer true. 

I was right.  She was wrong. 

We have run out of things to say.