Burning Giraffes

I still know it by heart. You haven't changed it, not ever.

Once a year on a day we both know, I take my keys and lock up my door. I slide into the driver's seat, turning on the engine. I drive, radio killed. I see a familiar street and slow down beside a lawn. Sometimes the grass is mowed, sometimes it's not. It's always green.

I take it out of my pocket and press the one button at a time. Eleven digits, certain as the sun. I breathe, and wait.

We haven't seen each other since then. I haven't even passed you on the sidewalk; I'm not allowed. I'm a monster, and I wrecked you. I would have wrecked you.

It catches me by surprise, all the time. I missed your voice.

They haven't said that I couldn't call you. I couldn't speak to you, but I could call you. It was a loophole; a miracle to think they would allow me even that much.

"Hello?" you say, after the first ring. I drive by, slowly, looking at the window with a certainty that you were behind it. Your voice comes with your lips, then your eyes, your face. Your hair, and your neck, and your body, all your weight balanced on one foot. The last time I saw you, on this date, the same quirk on your mouth. The time has barely gone.

"Hello?" you say again when the pause lingers. You know it's me, now.

"Hello?" you say, and there's no more doubt. The curtain shifts but I've already passed, back on normal speed, road to a normal life. A life without you.

I hang up. Wait for me next year, my darling.