A moment of silence

Peace returns to me in silence.

I watch the haphazard flitting of leaves as they try turning towards the sun, which is always somehow leaving. I turn to the crow, the singular one perched upon the thinnest branch, always calling out for its partner who never comes. I listen to chatter, clattering around the room like loose change, always a blur in the background, forming lines of static between my eyes, settling just under the bridge of my nose where I usually collect all my stress. I listen to all of these things at once.

In there somewhere, I must be. This is what I claim.

In the darkness. Inside my skull, where I harbour a space of silence, a stillness of the shivering oaks, a collection of water, a pond, I settle here when it becomes too much. Under the blanket of my eyes, you might catch glimpse of the smoothness, like gentle hands over a crumpled page, putting it back into shape. I return to water.

My shapelessness is a form. Is a structure. A column of gratitude.

My gratitude are your eyes. The coldness of them. The distance. Water that pools but does not flow. I swim in it.

In there somewhere, there is a fickle, folly seed, a little strand of light that falls upon our shadows like a gap between the door, and this gap leads us to a hallway that unravels like a roll of measuring tape. My claws grip hardwood floor as I propel myself back to the present, to the roar of connection which seemingly always evades me. Back to those serene eyes, to the call of it, always momentary, fleeting, but enough to sustain one more heartbeat as I resurface and crash.

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