Separation


Voices are so primal.

They have their own opinions to feed,
their own stomachs, their own caves to echo their egos.

They seem to know a lot about everything.

Today, nothing seemed right, as we watched
our voices separate from our bodies

while we sat, drinking in the fire before tea.

We watched our voices hover over the room
and clash, converging on tongues of smoke,

then blow up in something pink.

When our voices returned to us,
our bodies had already distanced themselves

like pollen from a bee, when honey means everything, or
the way piano legs peel away from themselves with age.

When I'm near you,
sound flows out of my body.

Come back to me dear, so I may hear again.