The air is wrong.
Words should hang
There. But nothing. Not a
peep, not a glance, not an outstretched
Hand across the chasm.
Emptiness at a
First glance.

But what if the air is too full, past capacity, regulation-breaking?
Yes. It isn't radio silence at all. So much noise
That we're deaf. Tongues move to speak but are met
With bitterness. Tension that needs a chainsaw
To cut. Hateful gods playing with magnets.
Would speak, but
The taste.

But more than bitterness is in the air.
A dream deferred floats in the ether,
Poised to pop, to burst.
No, not poised: it will, scattering
The beautiful moments, the possibilities
All around. Let's
stop it.