I have forgotten what my voice sounds like. I hear everything now, the rustle of the leaves, the sigh of the wind, and even the occasional whisper of water. But I cannot hear the sound of my voice.

Years ago, when I woke up to a life filled without even ghosts, I heard my voice a lot. I walked down my stairs, asking questions that I would never again hear the answers of. Ah, but I cannot tell you what I said because, alas, I do not remember the sound of my voice. But everything else is frozen in my mind, cool glaciers that roam my thoughts.

There was no one. It was a curious feeling: the sink was still running, the lights still flickering, but there was no one. I thought nothing of it at first—good, no one to bother me. That was what I thought. That was what I really thought.

I was sitting down eating cereal when I notice it—the absence of sound, the absence of cars, the absence of the murmurs, the absence of the patter of feet. It is like a boulder dropped on my shoulders, whispering what I already know. I get up and run outside, my voice screaming so loud. Question after question after question.

Why, why, why? And once again, I hear nothing.

I ran across the world back then, yelling and screaming, and moaning and running. Logic was throttled, put in a chock-hold and silenced. I cannot be alone, I cannot be alone, I cannot be alone. I ran so much and screamed so much that I no longer can do either. I am a dehydrated plant; the world has taken the water out of my cells and pulled it into the ground without giving anything in return.

This field I am laying in is beautiful. The sky is this warm blue that brushes my nose lightly. The clouds dance high above and gossip, but I cannot reach them either. Stuck, I am. Stuck between the mural above and the tears below.

It truly does not matter where they have gone, I have realized. They are gone. Every. Single. One. The wind waves a distant hello, but leaves before I wave back. I sit up, pressing my hands on the planes of glass looking forward and back. I can see the past so clearly, but it is a one-way mirror. Those girls who opened Christmas presents by the fire, cuddled with their mothers, played Marco-polo, and ate dinner together, they cannot see me. But I am doomed to see them, as I play my never-ending games.

The one looking forward is blank. What does it matter? I never stare at the one looking forward, because it presses on my chest so painfully. I curl in a ball and close my eyes.

Marco.

The sun has tired of watching me and turns to its companion, the moon. I watch them embrace. God, oh god, it is beautiful. The light is like ribbons, floating across a painting of blue, waving goodbye. But they will see each other again. She closes her eyes, smiling, waiting for another day. It will come, there is no doubt in her mind. She can sleep under the light of her moon to remind her she is here with him. She is not alone when she sleeps. God, what a beautiful sight. I open my mouth, but I cannot say it. I feel the word beautiful, but my mouth no longer knows it’s sound. And so the sun falls and the dry tears fall and I watch her nestle below me, behind me in that mirror. Waiting to hear someone say it.

Polo.