silence

he drives home,
swerving through the silence of cars passing by
and rain compressing between the tires and the pavement,
spraying against the wind
making the chassis sway sway sway

he sits in the silence of his empty car,
harmonizing against his vacant stare,
his chilled heart
and the tumultuous murmur of voices
repeating against his turbulent brain,
slowly fading into place against each other
until the silence
vibrates
against the back of his mind
as he stares at the center line
and the trucks flying by
making the chassis
sway sway sway.

a swerve into the lane
might take away the pain.
a swerve into the lane
might take away the pain
a sway into the lane
might take away the pain
a swerve into the lane might take away the pain.
"we knew this relationship was going this way"
(was going this way)
(was going this way)
(was going this way)
(was going this way)
(was going this way)
(was going this way) the foreign voice
(was going this way) trancing
(was going this way) from his throat,
(was going this way) begging for stitches
(was going this way) like a tell tale snitch
 
and then he was home,
letting his car
slip into the empty garage,
rusty hinges squealing upward,
trusty chains dragging backward,
disturbing the silence of the empty home
that wasn't his;
borrowed,
like his heart,
like his mind,
like his time,
and all at a price...
of his sanity.

the silence of a sigh
pushes into the compressed space
of the empty hallway
as the sound of the dragging
of britches too big
strums against the
broken patterns
in the carpet;
swish swish swish swash.

pulling wet clothes from wet skin,
cold with the wet silence of peeling,
feeling the silence surround him
and whisper insecurities
into his cold, wet brain;
that he has let himself go,
that the cold doesn't make a difference,
there's no use compensating
for inferiority
of body,
of mind,
of soul.
and he is alone
in the wet, cold silence.

he puts on his winter sweater,
his favorite sweater,
the gray sweater
that hugs him tight
that hangs against his frame
except for a little where the belly hangs
when he lifts his arms
in surrender.

he sits down
and breaks the silence
of synapses crackling,
whirring of motors
and electric stirring,
watching the colors
dance into patterns
of nothing

the page, blank.
the silence of clack clack click
rap tap tapping,
attacking the window pane
and his lonely keyboard,
strumming his pain
with his finger;
thrust in frustration
toward the empty screen.
he forgot the words
tucked behind the wallpaper
on his desk
in the office
in the corner
where they all tuck him away,
where they can find him anytime
so he can't hide.

he shoves rubber plugs into the holes in his head,
headphones; to silence the silence,
with stories to distract
from the voices.
pretend friends
to fill the spaces
between the holes in his head.

no one will miss me
when I'm dead
no one will miss me
when I'm dead
no one will miss me
when i'm dead
no one will miss me when i'm dead
no one will miss me....
until i'm dead.

and then his laptop
stops....
flopping from the top of his lap;

dead.

silent.