a piece of silence

A piece of silence, or something that looks like it, in this room, at this desk, next to my hands that I can't calm. Do you know that silence is sad? That's what it seems to me now, because right now I have silence in my ears. Sad silence. I listen to it carefully, and it tells me about motes of dust I don't notice, about people sleeping at this hour, about my bare feet somewhere on the floor. The silence, a piece of which is here with me, purrs in someone's voice, stretching delightfully, sighing deeply under the covers, singing to itself far beyond the window, fading. Not exactly what anyone will ask while reading these words, but always, somewhere in the least expected, most absurdly anticipated, most persistently pursued moment, it arrives and soothes with its whisper of a fading street, the whistle of something beyond the window, an ambulance speeding by senselessly, because it will be returning soon. It remains silent under my fingertips. I should say, rather, with my fingertips, but there's no one there either, so a piece of silence lies beneath my fingertips. It's completely the same, cradled, pensive, mysterious, fairytale-like, quiet, quiet, someone else's lungs sigh, someone else's belly murmurs. It would seem that everything has been said on this subject, but it only seems that way. This time the silence is a bit different. It heralds. This time, a bit differently, it heralds something that must inevitably happen, something that always rouses one from numbness, from complete numbness. A subtle noise. A purr, rather. A rustle. A clang. A grind. A lock. A lack of lubricant. Something, over and over, but first, it can't find the lock. It has no idea how to hit it. Damn, it could go wrong, because wasn't it nice and quiet, and when suddenly all this noise, rags, the din of heavy… Yes, yes, I know, but it's twisting, it's already twisting. She turns it quietly, though for me it's a terrible noise, a bang, a clatter, cobblestones, a viaduct, a funeral procession, a Wartburg, a thoroughfare. Well. She turned it. She came in. Pretend I'm there? Shrug? Be frightened when she touches my neck with her warm lips? Flinch expressively as her tongue gently but firmly runs from the hollow of my earlobe to my collarbone, only to immediately, using her hands, of course, or rather her palms, begin to undo, pull, unfasten, slide, tear, tear off, throw away, turn, hug, crawl, toss, slide, scratch, groan. What good is my head?! After all, it was only her who came in. Dear Magda came home with the groceries, and you're inventing such unconventional things that... you wish would happen, or happen more easily, or happen faster, or still exist, or not. No? Stop it. She simply disturbed your silence. That moment of silence you had for that moment of time, that moment to blink, to think, to write, nana, nanananan, na, naaaa! She'll come in, and I'll be singing nananana! No, she won't. Busy, absorbed, worried, flustered, too much too. She'll probably ask if I've written anything, show me, please, won't you? I won't show you either, so no, no? No, then get out, get out, get out. Language. I forgot about language.My tongue, which between her breasts creates tiny circles, and the sweat droplets create an inexpressible pleasure for the palate, because it's so salty, while her lips are sweet, and the sweat is so delicately salty that the lips can, because the sweat is salty, because the lips are sweet, because the sweat. Breasts. Between. Breasts. Sometimes it happens. Especially in the summer. Or during work, which sometimes involves wearing mesh. And sometimes smiling. Smiling after. Did she go. Did she go? No. To the bathroom. I don't take off these headphones. She'll think I didn't hear, that I slept, that I loved, that I didn't care. How these little bells of the strawberry headphones are driving me crazy today. I wanted to say I'm rhyming, but everyone's probably already done it. Exactly. So I can just hear her flushing the toilet beautifully, two steps, as usual, two, the tap water howling, full speed, pounding, burning... This clearly doesn't fit. Why does it burn? A silly rhyme. Good humor, though silence. This must end, absolutely, or I'll go crazy! I listen to the footsteps, the rush of water, the bustle, the tapping, the pulsing of her temple, where I remember a few stray hairs usually cover a small pox scar left behind, which she always uses her hand in that characteristic way. Though probably not today. Today she knows I'm writing, so refrigerator, tap, slap, dinner! She'll be making dinner, and I'm pretending so beautifully! Don't I deserve a reward?! Tell me, darling, don't I?! Do I?!… Silence. A moment of silence. She's probably reading some instruction manual for jelly, or maybe pudding, which I hate, because you always have to enjoy it to the fullest, taste it, cook it, buy it, choose it, damn it. What am I…? A bit of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because still silence. Still silence. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's the quietest, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, nothing. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is to break the thread of understanding, a broken, nonexistent, nonexistent connection, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just a hand on my chest. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the simple act of eating jelly, because I don't like pudding, which is why pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one would be prepared for in my position—unbalanced, not very bright, not very developed, not very complex, like these sentences, but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be toying with me. Will it burst? Not expected.Because the sweat is salty, because the lips are sweetish, because the sweat. With the breasts. Between the breasts. It happens sometimes. Especially in the summer. Or during work, which sometimes involves wearing mesh. And sometimes smiling. Smiling after. Did she go. Did she leave? No. To the bathroom. I don't take off these headphones. She'll think I didn't hear, that I slept, that I loved, that I didn't care. How these little bells of the strawberry headphones are driving me crazy today. I wanted to say I'm rhyming, but everyone's probably already done it. Exactly. So I can just hear her flushing the toilet beautifully, two steps, as usual, two, the water from the tap howling, full speed, pounding, burning... It clearly doesn't fit. Why exactly does it burn? A stupid rhyme. Good humor, though silence. This has to end eventually, because I'm going crazy! I listen to the footsteps, the rush of water, the bustle, the tapping, the pulsing of her temple, where I remember a few stray hairs usually cover a small pox scar left behind, which she always uses her hand to touch in that characteristic way. Though probably not today. Today she knows I'm writing, so the fridge, tap, tap, dinner! She'll be making dinner, and I'm faking it so beautifully! Don't I deserve a reward?! Tell me, darling, don't I?! Do I?!… Silence. A moment of silence. She's probably reading some instruction manual for jelly, or maybe pudding, which I hate because you always have to enjoy it to the fullest, taste it, cook it, buy it, choose it, damn it. What am I…? A bit of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because still silence. Still silence. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's the quietest, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, nothing. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is to break the thread of understanding, a broken, nonexistent, nonexistent connection, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just a hand on my chest. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the simple act of eating jelly, because I don't like pudding, which is why pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one would be prepared for in my position—unbalanced, not very bright, not very developed, not very complex, like these sentences, but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be toying with me. Will it burst? Not expected.Because the sweat is salty, because the lips are sweetish, because the sweat. With the breasts. Between the breasts. It happens sometimes. Especially in the summer. Or during work, which sometimes involves wearing mesh. And sometimes smiling. Smiling after. Did she go. Did she leave? No. To the bathroom. I don't take off these headphones. She'll think I didn't hear, that I slept, that I loved, that I didn't care. How these little bells of the strawberry headphones are driving me crazy today. I wanted to say I'm rhyming, but everyone's probably already done it. Exactly. So I can just hear her flushing the toilet beautifully, two steps, as usual, two, the water from the tap howling, full speed, pounding, burning... It clearly doesn't fit. Why exactly does it burn? A stupid rhyme. Good humor, though silence. This has to end eventually, because I'm going crazy! I listen to the footsteps, the rush of water, the bustle, the tapping, the pulsing of her temple, where I remember a few stray hairs usually cover a small pox scar left behind, which she always uses her hand to touch in that characteristic way. Though probably not today. Today she knows I'm writing, so the fridge, tap, tap, dinner! She'll be making dinner, and I'm faking it so beautifully! Don't I deserve a reward?! Tell me, darling, don't I?! Do I?!… Silence. A moment of silence. She's probably reading some instruction manual for jelly, or maybe pudding, which I hate because you always have to enjoy it to the fullest, taste it, cook it, buy it, choose it, damn it. What am I…? A bit of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because still silence. Still silence. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's the quietest, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, nothing. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is to break the thread of understanding, a broken, nonexistent, nonexistent connection, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just a hand on my chest. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the simple act of eating jelly, because I don't like pudding, which is why pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one would be prepared for in my position—unbalanced, not very bright, not very developed, not very complex, like these sentences, but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be toying with me. Will it burst? Not expected.I'm rhyming, but everyone's probably already done it. Exactly. So I hear her beautifully flushing the toilet, two steps, two as usual, the water from the tap howling in a rush, pounding, burning... It clearly doesn't fit. Why exactly is it burning? A stupid rhyme. Good humor, though silence. This must come to an end, or I'll go crazy! I listen to the footsteps, the rush of the water, the bustle, the tapping, the pulsing of her temple, where I remember that usually a few unruly hairs cover the small pox scar left behind, which she always uses her hand in that characteristic way. Although probably not today. Today she knows I'm writing, so the fridge, tap, tap, dinner! She'll be making dinner, and I'm pretending so beautifully! Don't I deserve a reward?! Tell me, darling, don't I?! Do I?!... Silence. A moment of silence. She's probably reading some instruction manual for jelly, or maybe pudding, which I hate, because you always have to enjoy it as best as possible, taste it, cook it, buy it, choose it, damn it. What am I...? A bit of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because it's still quiet. Still quiet. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's as quiet as possible, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, death. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is a broken thread of communication, a misunderstanding, a nonexistent, nonexistent, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just the hand on my breast. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the usual eating of jelly, because I don't like pudding, so pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one in my position would be ready for—unbalanced and not very bright and not very developed and not very complex like these sentences—but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be playing with me. Will it break? Not that it will.I'm rhyming, but everyone's probably already done it. Exactly. So I hear her beautifully flushing the toilet, two steps, two as usual, the water from the tap howling in a rush, pounding, burning... It clearly doesn't fit. Why exactly is it burning? A stupid rhyme. Good humor, though silence. This must come to an end, or I'll go crazy! I listen to the footsteps, the rush of the water, the bustle, the tapping, the pulsing of her temple, where I remember that usually a few unruly hairs cover the small pox scar left behind, which she always uses her hand in that characteristic way. Although probably not today. Today she knows I'm writing, so the fridge, tap, tap, dinner! She'll be making dinner, and I'm pretending so beautifully! Don't I deserve a reward?! Tell me, darling, don't I?! Do I?!... Silence. A moment of silence. She's probably reading some instruction manual for jelly, or maybe pudding, which I hate, because you always have to enjoy it as best as possible, taste it, cook it, buy it, choose it, damn it. What am I...? A bit of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because it's still quiet. Still quiet. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's as quiet as possible, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, death. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is a broken thread of communication, a misunderstanding, a nonexistent, nonexistent, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just the hand on my breast. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the usual eating of jelly, because I don't like pudding, so pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one in my position would be ready for—unbalanced and not very bright and not very developed and not very complex like these sentences—but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be playing with me. Will it break? Not that it will.Because you always have to enjoy, taste, cook, buy, choose, damn it. What am I...? A piece of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because it's still quiet. Still quiet. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's as quiet as possible, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, death. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is a broken thread of understanding, a misunderstanding that didn't exist, a nonexistent, nonexistent, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just the hand on my breast. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the usual eating of jelly, because I don't like pudding, so pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one in my position would be ready for—unbalanced and not very bright and not very developed and not very complex like these sentences—but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be playing with me. Will it break? Not that it will.Because you always have to enjoy, taste, cook, buy, choose, damn it. What am I...? A piece of silence? That was good a while ago. Why now? Because it's still quiet. Still quiet. Could she still be reading? I don't think so. It's not like her to be so quiet, so silent, even if it's as quiet as possible, because we're terrified of excessive noise, which causes permanent deafness, damage to furniture, and ultimately, death. To take off the headphones? To take off the headphones is to admit it. To admit it is to stop the fun. To stop the fun is a broken thread of understanding, a misunderstanding that didn't exist, a nonexistent, nonexistent, no. And that's what always attracted us most to each other. Not just the hand on my breast. Not just her tongue on my collarbone. Not just the usual eating of jelly, because I don't like pudding, so pudding is always in the most unexpected place, to cheat and do something no one in my position would be ready for—unbalanced and not very bright and not very developed and not very complex like these sentences—but is that it? Not only that. Not only that, because usually, this thread of understanding, which is now taut on my part, seems to be playing with me. Will it break? Not that it will.