We're all Making Music
It’s only cicadas
piercing the silence, the loneliness
of cotton candy skies,
and a blood orange setting sun.
Days getting shorter,
and I can taste the leaves about to fall.
In search of anything, anything to numb,
one last chance before the bitter cold.
But I want to feel,
I need to feel what it’s like without you,
without anyone here.
Just buzzing and chirping
and the way the staleness of humid air sounds
as it sneakily invades the smallest of spaces,
like an unwelcome house guest.
The dusty A/C box rattling,
roaring to life like an old Chevy,
struggling to keep up.
Assaulting each sense.
A single bead of sweat
rolling down the small of my back.
The only thing in motion
for I am still, so still.
Just that bead and my mind are going.
My synapses firing a million miles a minute,
like the wings of a hummingbird.
Flap, flap, flapping.
To make sense of the stillness,
to find the meaning.
What is the fucking point of it all?
Oh, to go back to a place and a time when it was just silent.
But I can’t even remember the last time it was so.
Because that is not life.
It is never silent.
It is never simple.
It is never one thing in motion.
It is thousands of beings colliding,
and conversations interjecting,
and lines getting crossed,
and sound waves,
Just utter confusion.
Like the cicadas.
All talking over one another.
Yet all making perfect sense at the same exact time.
All making beautiful music, in unison.
It is all one big, quiet, beautiful, loud, mess.
And I’m still learning how to take it all in.