Drowning out the noise of singing with drums so loud from a song so old it makes
newly pierced earlobes ache, drums so loud they make piercings ring like the
starting note to a high-budget opera, full of anticipation, has not yet caught up, the
sound of singing still punctures through in the cold moments between songs, empty
and vulnerable, know all the words to the drums and to the singing,
Making eye contact with people loved and loving as if eyes met at the right
mosquito frequency, the rest might just melt away, might just dissolve into carpeted
seats, and if the singers haven’t locked eyes yet, it will happen, finding eyes locking
one day on the way home, eyes will lock and the pitch will ring out, an epic opera
almost about to start in a white and gold room, almost, almost.
Never did laughter sound so curdled.
Cold-sour and cramping the laughter dyes the air black and the opera is to begin.
The almost obscured.
Almost (almost, almost)