Can you feel my quiet? It blankets over the moon. Can you see my quiet? It hovers over your pretty heads. Can you hear my quiet? It drums in my heart. Can you taste my quiet? It bursts in color, but I am still gray. I am flying like a kite through December, and I am flipping the pages of my Literature book, and it is all I can do before I beat my drum harder and faster.
My quiet is the commiserating silence you would hear if you could hear it. It is the silence that reaches an air-conditioned room at precisely 5:30 PM and it is the silence that roams over my eyes when I am still clouded by drowsiness. It is the silence that comes in place of a nightmare's aftermath, and I am stuck swimming and trudging and kneeling, and my hands look for the end of the day too soon. My lips are drawn together and the ceiling is closing in when the alarm penetrates my bad dream, and I immediately gasp at the feeling of irrational depression I feel as I surface to the day. My rib cage is cramming in. My breath—it exudes throughout my limbs. My silence is a book of words, my silence is the crouching you see. I hunch over a book and I eat more silence. I reap it in the corners of the rooms, where the loveliest of books can be found, where the atmosphere and photosynthesis are chapters away. My quiet is an irritating rash reddening on the back of my neck, and I accidentally slap my throat. I grow quieter. I talk and still my lips are drawn close. I blink and see and laugh at somebody, but still I feel hollow and I feel complete.
My clauses cackle deep within. My neck cracks from the tension. The waves horse around my heart—I am an impatient insertion point.
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