The silence is a dream not even sleep
could fix. In a universe where this blue
and emerald orb turns around
a fiery sphere, throwing itself further
into the heavens, quiet is no more
then a pipe dream.
A dull wrrr of the air conditioner;
buzzing of the fridge, freezing
of ice.
The wind and all its power, causing
the tide, letting a butterfly take flight,
the flapping of fragile wings causing
the slightest of shifts in the timeline.
It only takes a single grain of sand
to cause an avalanche.
It is an avalanche that consumes
my most waking thoughts. It is
two lovers, dancing in my mind,
stomping their feet like hooves
in a field.
It is the static. Static of the unknown,
the terror, the excitement.
What will tomorrow bring?
The next hour? Minute?
Second?
Am I who I am now, or am I
just the sum of my past selves?
Do I exist, or is my body just
the host for a colony of bacteria;
a breeding ground for the splitting
of cells… a science experiment.
The thump thump thump of my beating
heart overtakes the racing of my mind.
I am alive. I am human.
The red liquid which runs through my veins
is nothing like the green which allows cars
to soar over the highway. Green, which turns
to brown, polluting our skies, hiding the blue
of a sunny day, the reminder of the ocean.
The cars, and their voices, the beeping
and vrooming and crashing,
are a little city, a life of their own,
a world in which humans aren’t
necessary. It’s fake, a childhood
imagination.
The screams, those are real.
The screams of said children falling
off play structures, of a teenage girl
planning a date, of another taking
a brisk walk, walking home
from her night shift.
I wonder if any of them count sheep.
If the numbering of one, two, three
Quiets their thoughts, four, five, six,
relaxes their mind, seven, eight, nine,
turns their daydreams into dreams, ten.
I wonder if the hot morning sun
awakens their thoughts, the blaring
of an alarm, a symphony, a dull song
of childhood nostalgia.
I wonder if they keep that song playing
preparing for their day. Dragging plastic
bristles along strands of hair, the minty
fresh scraping their teeth, the crunch of
cereal and breakfast toast.
The click-clack of heels out the door, a
quick “I love you,” peck on the cheek,
closing a door, opening another, tires
rotating, “hello,” “good morning,”
computer keys.
Does the buzzing fly bother them?
Does the fly feel out of place? Not
cut out for the office life? Did he
escape his egg, bringing a briefcase
and tie with him?
Does he miss the outdoors?
The wet heat of summer, the
humidity, not yet moist, the
comfortable burn of fire
lighting the air.
The air that makes you want to breathe,
run in the flowers, take photographs,
holding your lungs for just a second
while you secure the perfect shot.
Sitting down later that afternoon,
the couch you’ve had since college
squeaking underneath you, showing
the pictures to your lover, remembering
that their eyes are blue.
Strikingly blue.
Not the blue of ocean, of the tides,
but the blue of them. Their soul.
The man you fell in love with
on a Tuesday at a coffee shop.
You ask if one day
you can go back there.
He grabs his laptop, fingers
pecking the keys like one
reaches for a worm, hoping
there is some early bird special
for tickets to a different kind of bird.
A metal bird which wings flap
almost as much as a dead body stirs.
The want and need for nostalgia
is the faint sound of scales,
skin scraping, scratching
at one’s own skin.
One longs for quiet
like the pain of a dull itch.
