There’s a kind of silence that comes over the mind,
After not enough rest, or too much,
After a time of heaviness or wander,
When the business is replaced with roaring
Like an old, yellowing fan fitted in a window frame
Staling the air with dust.
There’s a kind of stillness that comes to the eyes,
When they’ve seen too much, or too little,
When the sky has been so bright for so long,
They sit open, wide, to everything, receiving none,
Like a warning, written by the last to ever be, burning red, open faced
Never to be seen by another’s eyes.
There’s a bitterness that comes to the ears.
The footsteps of two in unison,
aligning—aligning again,
The hands, the lips, hushes over hearts and arms
Spat out like flames, to the ears, and get coated in sour,
A thick wax one could scrape with the edges of their teeth.
There comes a pain, at the base of the neck,
With the silence, and stillness, and bitterness,
A moaning, dizzying dull of the senses,
A creaking, squeaking hiss
That fills the mouth with chalk and grinds it into the molars
Leaving the skull vibrating and trembling in its skin.