sqooomhs

I hear talk like the backwash burrs of buzzards, fryered to golden brown. Droning scales swim in through the ears, blood pumps in time to the smattering of your blurry hands tapping drumming moulding the air. My hands are like dead birds, twisted at odd angles in my lap. I find an oil covered paper plane. I drown out flashbacks of golden brown skin handling wires on this terrace. I squirm under our blanket of heavy silence, words swirling around my head evaporating in the space between tongue and tooth. You catch onto my inanities and laugh throatily, the end of road means now I get to get off.