The Sound Of

Groping now in your cold tumult. Your life only a pronoun. In your long sleeves. With your covered arms. Inky flesh prevails no expectations upon. Witty chestpieces fool them all.

Alone is the default. All other settings are temporary.

The bearings scream. The motor combusts. All the spinning has served little purpose. Other than to placate. Color the veins of dead leaves.

And once it's quiet again, you find yourself wanting those noises.

Because those sounds are real when nothing else is. The echo of the last drop as it catches your lips. THe rumble as glass and desk connect. The sound of empty in everything.

The sound of yourself and all you can do is listen.