Nights like these are disconnect.
When somewhere, something opens,
and unrest is released.
When sleep is only pale suggestion
against the rabid thrum beneath your ribs.
And wondering chases through your mind,
a drain that empties in on itself.
A feeling that lay quiet so long,
you almost checked to make sure it still breathed.
When you can't help the question,
would you know yourself anywhere?
Like the invisible strings of your heart would tug,
buoys stretched to their limit,
and you’d know.
Somehow, somewhere,
the missing parts ricochet about,
magnetic frequencies pulled in all directions.
Would you know?
When you bump shoulders with a stranger,
has it ever felt like remembering?
Somehow, somewhere,
across the vastness of space
and the intricacies of time,
does the thread ever untangle just enough
that you play telephone with the past?
What do you manage to say?
After the shock has subsided,
while the line is still taut.
Before the connection fizzles out into
staticky dimness,
do you dare ask
about coming home?
When you find your voice
and the line is long dead,
what is there
to say?
