Mine’s a sort of light, musical, dancing
tread, a never-ending thread of notes
on a string, a slight ring upon the ears,
I like to think of it as:
cheeky, small, charming.

An underground solo orchestra
the music of my footsteps,
only I can play
and we’ll never be able to play each other’s tunes.

When your knees crack real good
you’re locked in a skin of sound.

Every bone in my spine cracks
crystalising form in bubbling molten blood,
Can you hear?
Breath is a knife to dissect unsynchronized rhythms.

In an empty house, we miss each other by seconds.
The sound of doors banging.

Footsteps on hollow floorboards.