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And so this silence makes its own sound, feathery and wild. It has been too long, we think to ourselves. Crumpled down into our borrowed blankets, waiting for a trace of taste to bring our senses alive again. This stillness creeps along the window sills leaving a trail of undisturbed dust. I have been waiting in the wings, wingless for the sound it brings. Flapping remembered hollow bones we hid inside our hollow homes. Building nests from twigs and emptiness. Watching ships go down all around, remembering names and faces but unable to put the two together again. You didn’t always look like this, I think. But neither did I. Ruining the purpose of why this all started, running on beaches barefoot. Screaming at waves and wishing away winters inside our skin. Cold, cold touch. Scars and streams of old tears. Iodine on scraped knees. Massive monsters under our beds. Not so scary now. Stacks of decisions we couldn’t make piled against the walls like insulation. I have a destiny shining in the cells of me. When my voice is faltering, I am somehow louder than your shouting. Preservation peels the layers of the time we knew these prayers, hand on heart, fist in fire. Giving all that taking requires. I will speak to the empty chair until there’s no one left to sit there.
