Whisper (is it all gone?)

I love like I...

This is real, you Paris lovers...

This is the test and, in fact, nothing could color my energy...

Wait, scroll down,
I found a typo in my other brain
"and those who imitate convention...conversation...?
live in the parentheses,"
that's not right
(I just nervous laughed)
rather,
"My heart is lined with libraries,
or the rows of books they contain,"
I suppose that's closer...
is it (im)possible that all of it is gone?

I am worried that
I will be boiled down to a whisper
if the meaning is not recovered,
but the most useless helpline 
is the one most tightly wound,
and I cannot just tweet
my personal experience, can I?

From his lips effortlessly dropped,
"Just don't make my heart hurt,"
but he only called on the screen of a weekend,
and what is more dedicated than a text?
Perhaps the real life occurrence of one. 

I can only say with certainty, "life is random."

Unintelligble

She slipped her left arm
behind her back,
legs splayed in a prison push up,
and rather than collapsing,
breathed into the strength of her body and pushed,
the body that breathes as one
with the trees, with the animals,
the body bound to the earth
by forces
that cannot be reckoned with
no matter how often she flies
in her dreams,
released from the fear
of having chosen wrongly.

Having lived for so long
in a collective rush of energy, intimacy, intensity, fatigue,
the circles of repetition to and from, 

the over-warm subway
filled with the impatient clucking and crowing
of hens and cocks
jammed in a too-small space,
the smell of being lodged in the small of someone's back...

Well, it's a wonder to wake up
under a cream chenille bedspread
to the silence of soft rain
interrupted only
by a single rush of a nearby car,
a soon-to-be-quieted crying baby, 

two cats galavanting
to the familiar pitter patter
that is not often repeated
in the warmth of outdoor corridors
where an earthquake
is more likely
than a thunderstorm.

She rests and relishes
the expansion of her space and 
the lackadaisical intentionality of 

going about one's day in no rush at all,
for where does a person really need to be 
so quickly that it's worth the risk of ignoring?

It would seem
that to be a tree
is the same
as acknowledging
the inherent beauty
in a living being
that sings with energy,
even if the language is unintelligible to our ears
that really hear so very little.