Can’t sleep. Chirp. What is there but always a knock. On the inside of the chest like something has a hankering for a talk. All the time, a talk. About the skylights, about how it feels to sit for hours in silence. Chirp. Not a hello, not a good day, but a tap, a chirp. And it’s one more second until the next, until you can scrape the knees on a rock-face somewhere, kneeling for the sake of kneeling. For the sake of seeing yourself differently. For calling on that chirp. What is there but this knock.
Yesterday should have called. There were two days before this one. And the same chirp in my chest as in yours. Ignore the social constructs. I should. Perhaps I should take hold of Your t-shirt sleeves, press my ear to your chest and listen.
Kind of like sleep. Coming back. Coming to the place of noticing the chip, hankering for a talk and a bit of peanut butter. Mind, mind at all if I call this second? Knock, you said, I’m already on the other side.