The Weight of Unkept Songs

The telephone pole stands straight across the yellow grass. I walk toward it, tracing my boot heel in the dust. Near the base, a photograph rests on the ground, slightly curled. My mouth is visible in it, a smudge of grey pigment next to the yellowing border. The song begins, tinny sound from the pole's box. I sing the same notes, the melody rising from my throat and the box at once. The high C note vibrates through my chest, a quick, cold pressure. The field stretches out, perfectly flat, until the horizon line absorbs the sky’s blue pigment. I pause on the second verse. The weight of the silence that follows the music is heavy, pressing my shoulders down. I look back at the photograph. The ink bleeds out from my outline, darkening the edges until the picture is only the empty color of the paper.