The numbness of the notice.
The sharpness of the cut.
I heard his voice say the words, and then nothing else.
Neither end of the message a safe place, if not immortal.
“She has only a week or two left to live.”
How do you respond to such shock, how do you choose the right words so as not to make matters worse.
The messenger, terminal himself, knowing the weight of the last word escaping.
The listener, unable to bear further weight, shutting down in defense.
The patient, far removed from the world the messenger and listener share.
The silence crushing while all concerned struggle to think.
The words etched in all I see and feel.
The messenger and listener knowing, silence to be the safest place.
Wanting to run from it but the darkness not allowing.
For the patient, the messenger and the listener all know, the words will not change.
Only their perspective will bend over time, once together again in memory.
