mute

the silences are what give it away. the missing sounds, of the splash of a pebble, or the rev of the engine. simon and garfunkel had it right. but you don't miss the silences, you just pour words into their gaping mouths and, while not filling them up, at least it disguises them momentarily, and allows you to forget them, ignore them. meanwhile they eat me up. those silences are the pulling of the wool, the unravelling of the scarf that is me. and you're too deaf to notice.

you do not do, you do not do. you bastard, i'm through.
things i would say to you if i had it in me to seize the chance, but which instead may languish here forgotten forever in cyber-gloom.