The Tunnel

We walked through that tunnel again last night. 
Water up to our ankles, the smell of something old. 
Graffiti on the walls—names, dates, symbols we couldn't read. 
You said it felt like a dream you wouldn’t tell me.

The rope still hung from the ceiling, swaying slightly. 
I wondered who put it there, and why. 
Our reflections in the water looked back at us, distorted, 
like strangers we have become.

Beyond the tunnel, the street lights flickered. 
We stood there, listening to the distant hum. 
I wanted to say something, but the words— 
they just weren't there.

The distance between us stretched like the tunnel itself, 
longer than before, heavier than silence. 
We turned around and walked back, leaving the tunnel—
and what we once had—to its own darkness.

Peaks Island, Maine