Hands at the Bedside

Photo by Frank Alarcon on Unsplash

So much of the listening I do seems to be trying to get a sense of what is surrounding the words — the invisible whatness of every moment that clings to language as it is born.

I hold your leg at the knee and gently rock it back and forth,

imperceptible waves across loosening skin.

You look at me, only one eye open, and,

though it is clear and sharp,

though your voice still opens into paragraphs,

though you keep inside the narrow confines of social expression —

I hear you drowning.

I feel the pressure deep inside my own lungs — it hurts to breathe —

I taste the fetid air of the bottomless void you want to claim.