And then Roger Decides to Leave and Only his Voice in my Head Remains

by Poema Escritor

All your life you listened to voices.

Vocal voices. Verbose. Written. Verbal.

Loud and soft.

If you pay attention to the person talking to you, you will hear past the words

they weave together to form an idea,

a question, a declaration, a nonsense.

They will tell you what they feel by the way their eyes slant

towards the corner when mentioning someone else’s name.

Or how the wrinkle deepens when they frown

or smile. Or the bland, blank look of somber air

like a pale leaf hanging on the last branches of the autumn tree.

But they will speak.

They will speak in words.

In voice. In a song. In silence.

In the many complicated fabric of the movies of their lives.

In the roads and bumps they acquire or choose.

Or the light yellow ray with which they surf on their happy times.

They are the wind that constantly howl.

They are the noise that keep you awake in the night.

They are the static that wouldn’t go away

from an old television from a neighbor who refuses to close his window

and you refuse to close yours.

They are insight.

Or shallow. Or gaping. Or philosophical.

But they are there.

Sometimes you hear yourself with them.

Sometimes you don’t.

Oftentimes you hear mostly them from a distance like a bad connection

from the storms that carry a thunder or two.

But they are there.

And you are here.

Listening.

 

NaPoWriMo Day 8: optional choice