no dialogue.

you know, carelessly. the buzzing sensation that deepest layers of skin feel after the tight grip unclasped.  and no other hand can retune the nerves to the place before where synapse spakes to core and encouragement, voice leads you to ingenious places.  gone are symbols, signs and places, peeling apart the surfaces of what was built.  the product of innattention – the face is turned completely and the nape of the skull has no eye to judge you nor face your points, endeavours – no scowl to chide your weaknesses. no dialogue.  there is no voice; the vibration of the throat does not transmit the spine. it is not mine, it is something other and i adore that but, i struggle with the lack of dialogue. no interest in the core between before, but only forward moving then and therefore now no maintenance.

so there are two voices then. the discord twangs and i dig my heels in as i try to sing accompaniment. but some acts are solo, and each project as i go becomes less delightful when is not as you imagined. no partner, no. the insect on the wing a mere annoyance, the input buzzing ruffling feathers. i bury deep and sleep, the fluffing shaking, juttering me. i hope no windy turbulence unseats me.

how different than i see myself. the roots i offer grow the motions up; can give a good thing life. through earth more water travels than to throw the puddles up, and only get wet. careful checks can help from unplanned hassles to beget. discerning so, carefully so, patient yet. each plodded trod deliberate, each good intention set.