The Ricochet

I heard your echo, echo, echo,

it was hard not to hear because it had resided in behind and above my ears,
it was lodged in my synapses,
breathing in my ears,
reminding me of all the mistakes I had made,
one in particular,

And I missed my chance to make things better,
to do right by myself,

it was an echo,
and then it was a ringing in my ear,

it was a long, dull noise,
the kind that became pain instead,
the kind that confused you with its timeline,

but it was an echo, echo, echo,
like I said,

and so I sat out on the edge of a rock quarry,
and I reminded myself of summers when we were happy,
and then I questioned our happiness,

until my inquiries themselves were skipping across the canyon,
reverberating for sport,

and on the way back in my direction,
reminding me of our misery,

just as it should have done long ago