Noise
You loved noise
music. I loved music
that’s quiet.
I should have known that
was a sign of something
intrinsically awry,
but in love with what
I didn’t understand
I kept listening
for melody to break
through monotony,
for a beat to sway to.
That show you
took me to, where
a girl played vinyl
with acrylic nails,
the records spinning
on power tools,
I watched you
push your way closer
from where I stood
as far back as I could,
fingers in my ears.
I feared for yours.
It wasn’t enough
for you to listen.
You had to let it
fill your body,
to feel it
in your teeth.
And when she started
throwing metal
at the crowd,
I wanted to run in
and protect you,
but knew you
wanted to be hit,
if not by metal,
then by noise.
It’s funny now that
the night you left
I tried to take you
to a show, a band
from Canada called
The Weather Station.
The forecast was bad.
Storm watches and warnings,
the needle trembling
in a narrow vale
between drifts of static.
At dinner beforehand,
I felt the temperature drop,
asked you why
you were so cold.
You waited until
we were in the dark before
you told me.
I didn’t know
what else to do but
lose myself in the crowd
and listen to songs
you would have hated
because they were songs.
Meanwhile,
you were teasing
your life apart from mine.
I came home to find
all your dresses gone,
the medicine
cabinet empty.
The keys I’d had cut
on the desk
were all you had
to say in closing.
I’ve hardly heard
from you since.
The silence is like
the white noise we used
to fall asleep to,
the kind of sound
you can’t keep
from hearing because
it’s inside you.