Similar Story (From somewhere on the Internet)

I still don't know where this passage came from, but I wish I did. I hope you like it.

You never said you were sorry, so it’s such a similar story. I waited for your call until the sun was creeping backwards along the halls, a solicitor shrinking from a slammed door. My home was textured in black burlap folds and spring cold snaps. My feet scraped across a dirty wooden floor, watching and waiting for the static secrets the telephones hold in lines across the sky.

I never learned why you damned my name, never felt that ecclesiastical shame that was my inheritance of memory from you. I feel the tremor in my hands, regular and precise, when I grip the windowsill and look for your coming at the driveway. And as I sink into the rocking chair I dream of a wiser thing to say.

Believe in the green light. Happy New Year?

Something might be made out of this one. Maybe this one will work. Maybe this one won't collapse to flaccid waste beneath our feet. This time something might be achieved. It has happened before— seeds have brought forth fruit, goals have been reached, there are days that have been seized. It has happened before. We might be pleasantly surprised, this time, to find that the weariness that was our only inheritance of the past year only inured us to coming winters and the feeling of weakness actually made us stronger. Who can tell yet? Maybe we have learnt our lesson. Maybe this time we will do better.