The deafening silence of going viral
has settled in my ribcage, feasting as a harpy
on sorrow on my lung tissue, on the heart.
There are more echoes here than I remember.
Four chambers become caverns, strange music
—and I know I’ve heard it before, but tried to forget.
Lie with me in the ferocity of discordance
and I promise to whisper of things that never hurt.
Lie with me in the stain of erasure
and I will fill every gap with the gesture of cupping air.
Gasping in the ferocity of mourning
a life reduced to twilight and memory, rusted
scripts, scars, skin soaring --as if
you’d like nothing more than nothing from me.