long distance

I am crying to him over the phone.  It comes through in tiny gasps followed by my too familiar silences. 

"Talk to me," he coaxes.  "Misty please."  But once again I am unable to answer him when he needs me to.

By default the next ten minutes become his, and his alone.  He has no idea what demon he is fighting so he takes big, slashing swings into the dark. He talks of snow crested mountains, of warm rain storms, of sunlight on the rocks- ending with "you picked this."  

"I did," I answer "I picked this."

"I didn't mean it like that," he says.

"Yes, you did but it's okay- you're not wrong."

"Misty," He mutters. I can tell he is holding his face in his hands.

"Please, just listen to what I am trying to say..."

But it is once again already too late the words are all gone.
They have scrambled into hiding places like children playing night games. The words to say what it feels like when an old wound is reopened, the words that help one person understand another- gone. 

They take the feelings away with them. It leaves me wondering why it was even important in the first place.  It's like a black-hole spreading nothingness through my chest. Numbing.  An empty street.  Soft darkness.

It is a sinkhole opening up with me on one side and the world on the other.  And if the world is going to slink away then I will build a wall and ignore it ignoring me.

I can't even tell him that the tears are ancient. That the frustration is that of the girl in the elevator wanting to scream out but not knowing how. It is not what is going on now that is the trouble it is how it is making me feel.  And if I was doubting the connection at all my muteness with him is proof.

"I'm sorry," I say "I shouldn't have called you like this."

He groans so heavily it makes my shoulders ache, 

"You should always call me.  And one day we should actually talk."

"You know, I sort of want to kick the world in the head." I say.

He laughs, "Sweetness, I really don't think its got one."