Silence of the Unloving

I had a dream that lasted ages.

I took the dogs out to a cabin

and told no one where I went.

Yet, we were followed by the ghosts

of those I used to know.

I couldn’t recognize

the space they once occupied

in my heart — listeners

turned bitter.

Those I had given

more than second chances

seemed to forget

that they ever wanted

my time.

Had I become

a stranger in someone

else's life?

I tried to find sense

in the den

where loneliness lingers

and the dogs remember

the stirring howls their ancestors

once taught them in a nightmare

about the dying moon.

Is it true

we never really know

what something means until

it’s gone?

The dream was as long

as the first night

I was alone and realized

the silence of the unloving

made isolation easy.

It never really ended.

Awake, I search for the cabin

wondering, always,

whether it’s a place

or something akin to

the waning moon.

Will there at least be listeners

waiting by the door

eager enough to hear

the echoing

cries my daughter

once taught me

in a bittersweet fantasy?