The Composition of Silence

this is my silence.

the wall i will put up. the buffer i will keep.
my pregnant, potent pause.

this wall will protect things that i can now savour all alone on that someday when i can sit at the balcony, just the way you’d caught me, singing to myself.

i will stash behind it, my brave new world. my secret prayers, despite no god listening. faith. silly rabbits. my little angers. your little misgivings. my stupidities. little injuries. stories. my sides to the stories. the secrets i let you steal. the secrets i stole. a rag doll named GuY. my “perfection”. the moled smiley. every nerve ending that remembers you. that hidden bank of your smell that somehow sneaks up on me at an idle hour. that extra something in smiles, coded just for me. my index finger. permanent distance. desperate anger. the truth of the rebound, the second place, the other one. hiding. waiting. watching. wanting. wondering. strength. laughter at the brink of tears. olive farms. how, from a list of new messages, i’d save yours to open last. the shape of the pit inside when i find you’re not there. just how difficult it was for you. just how difficult it is for me. tea. asimov and the supercomputer. american beauty moments. monkey. bonafide spoonerisms. how it all takes just a single kindling of doubt. my discoveries of the biggest ironies in life: lovecuresnoloneliness. numbnesscuresnopain. experiencecuresnoinnocence. cautioncuresnoaccident. timecuresnoscar. surprisecuresnoroutine. patiencecuresnomisgiving. reasoncuresnofleeting. practicalitycuresnofool.

this wall won’t protect me. it’s not about me. stopped being about me.
since i cannot understand. since i do not feel.
since, really, nothing happened.

this wall is a gentle reminder. to me.
you’re never where you belong.

Forty Seven

The poison that is everyday.

So many everydays. One everyday that follows another everyday.
Everyday that’s so everyday.
Habits, routines, circadian rhythms, time – lies that we tell ourselves that our lives are under control.

Like the time-lapse in the subway, under flickering lights, fleeting faces that flit like flies, the fleeing hands of the subway clock. The time-lapse, where we are the constant. Where we pointlessly stare at the dustbin. The cooing of the underground. The gentle rumbling. The lull.

The sedateness of everyday.

Everyday slips in, in a moment of lowered consciousness.
Through the holes of fingers nettled in prayer for strength.
Everyday slips in, like faithful Morphene for chronic pain of the Eventually Forgettable variety.

And then, after many everydays, comes a One Day.