I've grown aware that my brain is tuned incorrectly. The antenna that detects frequencies (art, truth, and death turn things to marble) of screams and whispers and noise sticks out obscenely. Pornographically. Sometimes I give in to it and thread myself along its wires, intertwining with the sharp ambiance. My heart beats faster An unholy fusion And I contract, deliciously, Undulating with the compressions in the air. They light up the silent ******* scream coursing through my veins.
Would he have liked it here? Or would he have sat Unobtrusively, as I do now and longed to feel the surf lap against his toes?