My every hour is unhearing and unheard.
A grievous sinner, they say - my deafness proof.
Perhaps.
A throat full of dust ensures that my croak is piteous to hear.
All turn away.
Why try.
Unhearing, unheard, unconnected.
Every hour.
They drag me to a hidden place to be alone with him.
He says nothing.
Why would he, to me?
Instead, he reaches.
Intrusive fingers fill my ears, his spittle to my tongue.
No one has ever touched me so.
How dare he.
The instant feels forever.
In the instant, I can hear each increase of an expanding rush, louder, clearer, and I feel the dust dissolve.
In the instant, nothing is left of what I was.
A universal newness, hard and immediate.
He loves me.
