Oblivion

They all go away so suddenly, even though there was still so much to say. On your birthday, son, I think of you and all who are gone, knowing at the same time that I am the one who is lost. For you and your silent kind have taken these many parts of me with you. The phone does not ring. The message does not chime. So many words have died, unspoken, and my tongue is the tomb, my heart a stony cavern of senseless echoes. Every word is eternally ready, every love letter is at my fingers. You are all a painful fullness in my chest, deflating day by day, refilling with rest, with me again at the instant I open my eyes. I miss you. I miss all the dead languages of the world, for this life cannot be translated, comprehended without them. All of the parts have fallen out of the program and left a blank, nonnegotiable screen. Useless. It does not speak, it does not chime, it does not ring. It knows only one word: oblivion.