Quietness
is a tree falling in an empty forest,
and I have always been good at it.
When I’m asked why I don’t answer,
I don’t answer.
When I’m left,
I don’t say goodbye.
But I remember why, and the only goodbye
I never got to say is what keeps me from saying
it still.
I remember bowties and long dresses,
standing silently, smiling.
And later we danced,
my head on your shoulder
a fallen tree but you’d caught me,
I was leaning on you
and you were strong enough
not to fall, too.
I remember standing with my feet
planted in your lap and my arms in the stars
like branches, reaching,
while you drove
across twinkling bridges.
But I didn’t let go, your hands on
my legs kept me rooted there.
Mostly, I remember our hands
when you kissed me.
Your earthy palms meeting mine
would press there against them, a trunk split
in two held together again.
But the quietness became too much and
splintered between us.
When you left,
I watched the dark leaves crumple beneath
your retreating footsteps like a question:
“What are you doing? Where are you going?!”
But I didn’t hear,
didn't hear the sound
of you leaving me, for there was no
answer but the crunch of the dying leaves.
This winter, I am like a tree
surrounded by a cold, empty forest.
But you will not hear me fall,
or be there to catch me.
I have already fallen.
And in this quietness now,
on the tip of
my tongue, an impossible
goodbye.
-Rory Finnegan
is a tree falling in an empty forest,
and I have always been good at it.
When I’m asked why I don’t answer,
I don’t answer.
When I’m left,
I don’t say goodbye.
But I remember why, and the only goodbye
I never got to say is what keeps me from saying
it still.
I remember bowties and long dresses,
standing silently, smiling.
And later we danced,
my head on your shoulder
a fallen tree but you’d caught me,
I was leaning on you
and you were strong enough
not to fall, too.
I remember standing with my feet
planted in your lap and my arms in the stars
like branches, reaching,
while you drove
across twinkling bridges.
But I didn’t let go, your hands on
my legs kept me rooted there.
Mostly, I remember our hands
when you kissed me.
Your earthy palms meeting mine
would press there against them, a trunk split
in two held together again.
But the quietness became too much and
splintered between us.
When you left,
I watched the dark leaves crumple beneath
your retreating footsteps like a question:
“What are you doing? Where are you going?!”
But I didn’t hear,
didn't hear the sound
of you leaving me, for there was no
answer but the crunch of the dying leaves.
This winter, I am like a tree
surrounded by a cold, empty forest.
But you will not hear me fall,
or be there to catch me.
I have already fallen.
And in this quietness now,
on the tip of
my tongue, an impossible
goodbye.
-Rory Finnegan