Monday, December 17, 2007
After Your Voice
Your voice is like a telephone ringing in a room with all the doors taken off and windows broken. I am sitting cross-legged and bare-arsed in its centre and it fills me like a sound; which is what it is, your voice, a sound. It is yours and my senses are sharpened by it. Your words fall like small stones and I want to catch every one of them, I would keep them all in my pockets, if I had pockets, always before your voice I am naked and I can’t keep my own words let alone yours. Which aren’t really like stones except that they are round and smooth and perfectly formed by something outside them, or from rubbing against each other. All my answers are too small for your questions, they fall through the comfort of your sounds to land beside me on the hardwood floor in a crack of sun which shows how dusty they are and the sound of your voice blows them away. Then this room which barely exists and contains nothing empties itself again. After your voice stops ringing.