Conversations i never had

“Language” he said “its heartbreakingly impoverished but its all we got. Little words we string together like beads on thread then drape over one to another with some audacious hope that theyll have the slightest goddamn idea what it is we’re REALLY tryin to say - all our grand declarations, observations, our pleadings - the desperation of our questions. Dont none of it matter son. Its all jus brittle line - brittle line cast from one soul to the next.”

He wasn’t old then but his eyes had the look of someone old. Tired. Quietly resigned. He poured himself a shot of whiskey in an old stained coffee cup and stared down in the bottom a long while. He didn’t speak and i wondered if hed been born with those eyes.

“Language is poor” he finally said.

“Its why we crave metaphor. Why the melody never lets us jus sing it outright. Its ’cause words are poor my friend - and the only thing more lonely than breathin - 

is having something to say”