Scout E.S. in the Shadows

  I don’t need their theme to play in the background. I don’t need to hear their whispers to know they speak about me. I don’t need to hear their footsteps to know they run from me. I don’t need anything. I can hear the tapping of the clock just fine, the drums just fine, the stomping just fine, the waves just fine. I don’t want to be able to read their lips or know the length of their stride. The drums are loud enough to drown out the sound of my ignorance. They asked me what I thought about love, and I told them I didn’t want it. Because the ones who told me they loved me whispered and ran and sang in the background of my misery. I heard their sultry piano on a long Wednesday afternoon. They drowned the clock, moving backward, and the drums blasting a Phil Collins song. I shook my head, hoping that my eardrums could come loose and my feet could plant roots immune to my temptations. The smooth solo drifted through the hardly open window, and I forgot what I did and didn’t need. I ...