.regressions.in.listening.

These confessions of ours
hardly seem to be able to, can only scarcely
beat on our over-taut eardrums. It's a familiar
rhythm, and all we can manage is
to push some air around, as if it weighed
more than you and me put
together. Put
in, out, away.

Hands, once together, clasp
wildly into the air, warding
off the last warm whispers that summer
left us with. White knuckles
grasping for those patches of
colour traversing the open spaces
from brittle branches to their brethren
mashed into the cul de sac.

If we have missed one
beat, we have missed several.
If we have climbed one
mountain of air, we have fallen
through many more. If
we could only remember
the melody, we could whistle
the tune. But we are left with nothing
more than refrains, an empty
chorus we can't place ourselves in
anymore.