There's a certain chord
that thrums in the same wavelength
of sonorous solitude.
It is more of a quiver than a vibration
like a bird's wing trapped
in the half-inch between the tips
of a boy's thumb and index finger.

I hear the sound of
repressed struggles and imprisoned words
like a bottle of soda shaken, shaken

hiss.

It sounds something
like the clink of glass shards
swept into a forgotten corner
or the whistle of labored breaths
ebbing against the sandpaper lining
inside the throat
or the atomic scream
of dust corpuscles settling
on top of cardboard boxes filled with
nostalgia for the unattainable.

I know this sound, this song.
I hear it in the flutter of your eyelashes
the murmurs of your fingers
across my skin
the unspoken lying between your teeth
forcing their way to the corners of your mouth
your smile.

This is the sound of a divine choir
when heaven
collapses.