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Date Posted: 05:25:56 07/15/02 Mon
Author: March Hare
Subject: I hate titles.

I sang a lonely song that day
It echoed down the street
So silent was the day that day
Our eyes refused to meet.

We walked side by side that day, so close, so far apart. Each hand its own, each heart alone, attempting to sacrifice familiarity for--something. What? Just something.--Familiarity for the unknown. Familiarity for newness. Something to sever the connection which was so badly torn already. Something final. To see a lover as a stranger for the first time we remember, ah, how odd that can be. We glanced at one another in a sideways way to assure ourselves we weren't alone. Yet. That although we both were torn there were still two of us. For now. To let one another drown because neither of us could swim. We died that day. Individually and together.

I stopped singing when I became this ghost.

The silence was deafening, as though no one else in the world wanted to talk that day either. As though no one else on that street had anything more to say. A silence so thick and hazy that no expression even came forth. We'd quickly glance at one another's blank faces. No curiosity, really, just confirmation. Still there, still there. Not alone yet. Still two, still two. Not alone yet. Glancing only long enough to see flesh. That was enough confirmation. In that moment it didn't even matter who was walking beside him or me. So long as it was someone as silent and expressionless as ourselves. Still there, still there. Not alone yet. Still there, still there. Lonely but not alone.

Some of it had been said before, but most of it didn't have to be said. Most of it was understood and accepted in the moment it was brought forth. Still, neither of us understood one another that day. Sometimes a soft breeze would come up, and it whispered to us, Almost alone, almost alone, you're not quite, but almost alone. We understood that much together. It wasn't a particularly hot day nor a cold day. Just a typical, hazy summer day when we died. But there was no change, no metamorphosis, nothing to indicate that we'd become mist. No expression, no words, no contact. More of the same, more of the same.

The sameness became in-betweenness as we walked further and he sang.

He sang a lonely song that day
About being broken hearted
Our eyes met for a moment and in
That same moment we parted.

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