There is a strange synchronicity in the wounds from breakups.
In grieving the absence of your shoulders, I miss his flannel.
I write a song and don’t know who it’s about,
only that it is true.
The emptiness in my belly whispers secrets
to the knot in my throat, its best friend.
Each tiny sadness awakens another,
a chorus of estuaries just under the skin,
flooding in unison.
.
Solitude is a room full of the going and gone.
All music comes from emptiness and resonance.
Tonight there are no names or memories,
just the harmonies of discord.
I lie still and let the wind sing through every hole in me.