i can hear nothing
but rain in the dramatic
movements of your lips.
it is as if being inaudible
is something akin to
a common trait of all
those drowned in a glass
of water who used to ask
me about the concerto
we listened to
the night before.
i still have the ability to see
the colours, which perhaps
keeps me in the realm of casual
observers, like the one
looking down at a swimmer
in a pool, wearing the same
pink jacket you disliked
so passionately, who knew
our real fears could fade
away into a veil
of ignorance.
hidden pilcrow 