The Broken Conversations

During promenades in languid evenings when she,

I and silence walk side by side,

the summer sun bids goodbye to the now cooling

earth underneath and the distance

between us is much more than it was in times

when we talked of the boy who’d blush when

I looked at him, when she told me how she saw Physics

as her nemesis back in her school days, when I told her

about a friend who is now a treasured memory.

She’d listen. I’d ramble. I’d do the same when her soft lips

moved to weave tales of her laborious childhood.

That was a long time ago. Back when Trump was still

railroading his way through Presidential elections.

Back when terrorist groups did not ram into strangers

on the London Bridge. My bond with her collapsed like

a brick wall around this time frame. And, ever since then, we

spend our evenings sucking sadness and melancholy

from the nightly air. We let the quiet whispers of the wind

do all the talking while we gaze into each other’s eyes as we

watch the mother-daughter bond fall apart like sand sculptures.

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