Masks

So it is, like some Sparrow's "so it goes," just as you said it would be.  Life, ha, it goes pretty easy on me, most of the time, but I still can't take my eyes off of you.  There's a shorter story, but the longer one is shared in a glance between us, or in a friend who watches us, remembering too.  It's almost a shame that your lover does not know about our Lakota summer.  I see sunshine golden brown pancakes on the stove and you smiling at the kitchen table, no doubt glad you're sitting with the ceiling as low as it was in that green house.  The wind came through the window, and there was something so very timeless about our moments, then.  Did I say that I loved you?  I can't remember the words coming out of my mouth.  Forward.  I see you on that hill, by my grandma's house, the one that is today in the final stages of selling.  Have I told you?  About $15,000 for each of the six daughters.  No one likes to talk about what we take from a settlement.  No one likes to talk about this:  I see you watching children play with their father, a cousin of mine.  I see you dreaming, and I knew then that I wanted children.  Yours.  You destroyed me for anyone else's dream.  Maybe nothing goes as planned.  Maybe people just say goodbye (in their own special way).  It's funny, I think we were still holding hands, then, when we were told that some things just stay in your veins.  Did I say that I loved you?  Do you remember the whisper of breath between us, your chest to my back, our bodies trembling because of the steps we were not taking?  This is still in my veins.  Oh, you run away.  No.  You got me there.  I was the one who ran.  I ran past Venice fountains.  They were empty, if you'll recall.  And we, we bought masks to hide truth.