The absence of silence

There is no call
for the absence of my voice.
Silence is spacious
and I am tucked into the corner.
I do not have ticking clocks
or a watch on my wrist;
it is easy to believe
I am not waiting
for anything to happen.

I am listening to notes that press fingers
into nerves. Melodies push buttons,
dialling the number for the room where
my heart lies, idle, gazing at blank plaster
and trying to find shadows
where there is no light.

Telephone music sounds all-too-often
like the voice that is supposed to be
at the other end.
Are there mockingbirds in the speakers,
or do they nest in my ribcage?
Sharp beaks tear at vital organs and
my heart is connected to my ears.

We are preoccupied
with colour and volume and sound,
measuring distance with words:
We are two 'I love you's apart;
The quiet is too much
like thunder; You shine
a bright gold, but the gleam has faded
by the time it reaches me.
The metaphors are too vivid -
distracting camouflage
for plain and unadorned truth.

Sometimes we forget that silence
is simply
absence.