MAYBE TOMORROW

So this is how it begins,

The whispers of the white horses

fall

in

tendrils

over the waves ignited by crepuscular rays,

I see them galloping in,

I gasp at the coldness of the English sea,

The battle of hair and wind,

I never hear them.

So tell me, what is it like?

To hear birdsong in the morning,

the drone of conversation,

saturated by the lull of the sunrise

as the light slips in,

Your radiators hummed for the first time

when I was too old,

it showed me how fragile sound can be.

I still forget how rain falls,

until it pounds our rooftops,

how wind howls,

until it breathes through the house,

I cannot decipher your voice

in this room,

because it does not tune in

correctly with my world,

I search for it endlessly,

I am left to contemplate the rhythms of your face instead,

The way that you face me,

 I access your world this way.

We are continuously falling through space.

This vacuum belongs to me and to me only,

It is a universe that consists of sound,

oppressed by biology,

 I am drenched in the stars

that hover after dawn

I am the blue hour

that consumes all of the lonely colours,

before they are left inaudible,

I hear your world

through fragments

boundless,

distorted but mine,

The sounds retreat

off the edges of the Earth,

too quick for me to hold on to,

maybe tomorrow I’ll hear them,

before I see them,

but today?

I am left searching.