The sound of you and me is luminous. It’s standing in the front row at a gig, a summer breeze on naked skin through an open window, the buzz from the first draw on a cigarette, The Shining when you’re nine, a flickering candle flame. It’s scintillating. You and me - I like the sound.
The sound of you and me is suspect to others. Or perhaps obvious. We know too much, talk with authority about each other. A conspiratorial closeness is sensed in the way we stand as one and share affection without words. To others we sound like we belong together. And yet, we don’t.
The sound of you and me is silent. A drowsy head resting against a shoulder in a cab on the way home. A hand running through hair. A finger touching a cheek. A kiss. As we undress each other, our clothes whisper secrets as they fall to the floor. Our eyes screaming the truth, but there is no sound.
The sound of you and me is borrowed. But it’s all I hear.