Radio silence
The sweet spot, the second before everything explodes. The bright lights, the echo of other voices, the rain hitting the glass, messing around, led by the wind. The silence. The heartbeat racing. The taste of something rotten at the back of the tongue, sliding down the throat. The obvious. What everyone sees. What certain eyes can never see. What certain eyes are blind to, just looking at something else. Always something else. A wound. The blood. The mess. Something that feels like home. Jazz notes. A hand gripping the hair at the back of a neck. The slow poisoning. The quiet whispers of what cannot be said out loud. Another defeat. Muddy boots. Slow pace. Quick pace. The darkness observing it all. Thousands of lights following the beat. A gleam in someone’s eyes. The truth. A lie. Walking for days. Crossing back and forth, between the sea and the imagined land. The borders that some observe with hatred, unsure if they ever meant something. Just a line to be crossed. Again and again, d...