I don’t have to make much of a sound.
I can let the sentences coalesce
in the air, a dual carriageway of words
interspersed with a laugh.
The names I store are few.
I don’t have to yank them
from the chest, swipe off clumps of dust -
they glow when they need to
like fireflies swaying in the night.
I dribble out my current affairs,
watery vowels from my mouth.
Am I boring you?
Voice like an elderly hoover,
interest tumbling down the stairs.
You’ve done more in five minutes
than I have in five weeks.
I blink, then I sink.
It’s OK.
The days of rapid chat
are six feet under,
flaws knocked out of shot,
not as blindingly bright.
I wonder where you were years ago.
We’d know more;
my gawky movements less present,
my mind not pulsing
with impossible possibilities.
Still I shudder at the distance between us.
Pauses plump as bubbles
that can’t be popped.
The flow halted
by my wodge of insecurity.
No bother.
I swallow what I can,
let the taste coat my throat.
If you sparkle
you can help me too
without being aware.
The sludge will vanish for a while.
You don’t even have to make
too much of a sound.