I am hers lurid in disguise; a coiled skin flows around’a shadow, set upon gasping breaths- she whispers in- the knowledge, the sweet sweat, gathers nibbles on the lobe of ears, pulls and what the bondage bears and what the free-melody bends- release. and return. I am hers.
voices are distinct, such as we, think about how much goes into a particular voice at any particular time, time, yes, time, genetics, body type, the evolution of ears that are around for the voice to enter, the endless amount of variables that makes a voice unique, because they all are, and then suddenly, like all things, there is silence, that distinction, that amalgamation of so many things… is gone. Never replaced by the same, there is no way to duplicate the recipe, sure, one can try, and maybe even bake something close or near a clone, but never, never to be exactly the same, so that voice has gone out, like a snuffed flame, once a life consumed, a remnant only in memory of a distinct sound, a singular voice, gone out, a golden disc, destined to roam the stars…
voices disappear voices go out like lights- once guided, gilded gilded lighthouse that surveyed the shore gone, swallowed by the surf of years and perhaps not all are lights but some are we come to trust to guide lessons learned beards grow long, and grey salt in the air whether calm or fray a beam we rely on even when we know the way, so well a voice gone taken back into the sea a light out never replaced to be
notes… in tribute to my father, been a year now, he was not perfect, so neither am I. But his voice, the noise, the frequency… there is silence in that space since, his sound’s occupation is absent there… and is missed.