A thin film of air quarantines the words,
And toggles them into reverse,
Settling them back under the tongues.
The eardrums condensed by a deep warble,
Nothing heard, nothing said,
The pupils swelling like planets through a telescope lens,
Tired eyes gazing, as time flings itself in sepia and grain,
Planting memories of twilights on a park bench after a rusty Monday,
As you looked over a five year old dressed as a ballerina,
Of subtle brushes of the fingertips,
While you walk into the grocery shop in your robe,
The throat starts to build a lump,
And translating it into a warm feeling,
You stay rooted,
And love again,
In Radio silence.