The telephone rings,
I let it ring.
Who do we have to talk to,
When devoid of self?
It's a crescendo.
The melody rising up in anticipation,
With a sudden stop - silence,
Only to begin again.
This melody doesn't fail,
repetitive like the words it once held.
But does consistency equal truth?
The water in this tub almost covers my neck,
The body feels lighter, albeit cooler.
Everything is either water or skin.
And the music of another's desperation,
Plays from somewhere half-underwater,
The telephone.
Don't we imbibe everything that we cant infiltrate?
This skin drinks water,
Thirstily,
Parched from the air that took from it.
The same air that carries forth the monotonous ring,
But consistency isn't melody to me anymore,
And crescendos that stop suddenly,
Are but insincere cries.
The water reaches my already moist eyes now,
The ring of the telephone comes from another world.
I close my eyes.
It's time for a dreamless sleep.
