The silence is a dream not even sleep

could fix. In a universe where this blue

and emerald orb turns around

a fiery sphere, throwing itself further

into the heavens, quiet is no more

then a pipe dream.

A dull wrrr of the air conditioner;

buzzing of the fridge, freezing

of ice.

The wind and all its power, causing

the tide, letting a butterfly take flight,

the flapping of fragile wings causing

the slightest of shifts in the timeline.

It only takes a single grain of sand

to cause an avalanche.

It is an avalanche that consumes

my most waking thoughts. It is

two lovers, dancing in my mind,

stomping their feet like hooves

in a field.

It is the static. Static of the unknown,

the terror, the excitement.

What will tomorrow bring?

The next hour? Minute?

Second?

Am I who I am now, or am I

just the sum of my past selves?

Do I exist, or is my body just

the host for a colony of bacteria;

a breeding ground for the splitting

of cells... a science experiment.

The thump thump thump of my beating

heart overtakes the racing of my mind.

I am alive. I am human.

The red liquid which runs through my veins

is nothing like the green which allows cars

to soar over the highway. Green, which turns

to brown, polluting our skies, hiding the blue

of a sunny day, the reminder of the ocean.

The cars, and their voices, the beeping

and vrooming and crashing,

are a little city, a life of their own,

a world in which humans aren't

necessary. It's fake, a childhood

imagination.

The screams, those are real.

The screams of said children falling

off play structures, of a teenage girl

planning a date, of another taking

a brisk walk, walking home

from her night shift.

I wonder if any of them count sheep.

If the numbering of one, two, three

Quiets their thoughts, four, five, six,

relaxes their mind, seven, eight, nine,

turns their daydreams into dreams, ten.

I wonder if the hot morning sun

awakens their thoughts, the blaring

of an alarm, a symphony, a dull song

of childhood nostalgia.

I wonder if they keep that song playing

preparing for their day. Dragging plastic

bristles along strands of hair, the minty

fresh scraping their teeth, the crunch of

cereal and breakfast toast.

The click-clack of heels out the door, a

quick "I love you," peck on the cheek,

closing a door, opening another, tires

rotating, "hello," "good morning,"

computer keys.

Does the buzzing fly bother them?

Does the fly feel out of place? Not

cut out for the office life? Did he

escape his egg, bringing a briefcase

and tie with him?

Does he miss the outdoors?

The wet heat of summer, the

humidity, not yet moist, the

comfortable burn of fire

lighting the air.

The air that makes you want to breathe,

run in the flowers, take photographs,

holding your lungs for just a second

while you secure the perfect shot.

Sitting down later that afternoon,

the couch you've had since college

squeaking underneath you, showing

the pictures to your lover, remembering

that their eyes are blue.

Strikingly blue.

Not the blue of ocean, of the tides,

but the blue of them. Their soul.

The man you fell in love with

on a Tuesday at a coffee shop.

You ask if one day

you can go back there.

He grabs his laptop, fingers

pecking the keys like one

reaches for a worm, hoping

there is some early bird special

for tickets to a different kind of bird.

A metal bird which wings flap

almost as much as a dead body stirs.

The want and need for nostalgia

is the faint sound of scales,

skin scraping, scratching

at one's own skin.

One longs for quiet

like the pain of a dull itch.