Age

There's a silence in my stomach -  
it expands,
stretches out fingers, long and thin, that slither up my throat and out of my mouth.  
There's a silence that grows from follicles,  
creates a sturdy crown upon my head  
and leaks,  
drips with infatuation for cushions  
that offer comfort to the spine,  
drifts lazily around the ankles of Montague Don,  
kisses indifferently the mouths of Sam Cooke and Blondie and James Blake  
and drools in a light slumber beside photos of old.  
This feeling consumes my soul,  
my moments,  
my mind,  
bleeds it all together,  
stretches it out  
until it is no longer a roller coaster,  
instead a drive in a Volvo -  
and for the most part  
silent.