the beating of your own heart
? the passing of time
as words drip like water
from the tongues of lovers, splashing you with regret
for things still to be said?
the miserable march of days marked by nothing
, no trivial
touchstone to file away with the rest
the hungry belly absence of touch
the reminiscing bells of far away, long ago, and what could have been done differently
twang of a tenaciously clinging
the dry scratch of a leaf across a square mile of pavement no feet will tread over today?
do you hear my thoughts, as they work back to you and wonder? do you hear my nights awake in the dark of a back room, as the cat scratches to come in but he's not the one i want to share the broken bed?
what is there to solicit when nothing has been said
about time? what if i'm not supposed to notice?
i fear giving up and forgetting and saying that this
was just another point on a chalkboard that makes me whole
, competent to dispense advice, admirable in my conquests, yet ultimately back where i began
cold and afraid in a big world i can't understand, torn from my recent history, the delusion of safety and stability all crushed and askew
maybe you hear this:
on the porch, the song i sing to the stars
the sonic disruption of my cigarette smoke with its best first search algorithm to reach them
my feet, bare against the dewy morning and the reassuring cold of my hands on my neck or stomach
the fable i'm giving so generously.
sometimes, in the silence
, i think i hear my future.