The Sounds You Forget

I walk the dark street,

Twisted Tea in hand,

banana blood in a metal cage.

Thunder eats sidewalks,

spits strobe light.

I can drink to forget you,

to block out the rumble,

I can beg you

to remember.

The loudest things

make no sound.

I listen,

ear to soundproof walls,

Waiting.

Waiting to be heard.

I send texts I regret

before they finish forming,

curled in sheets

that smell like sweat

and something ending.

Thunder again.

Does thunder ever

get a sore throat

from all the noise?

Does it ever get a headache

from all the lightning?

I look up to the sky and ask:

Where did you get your voice?

The thunder sneers:

I don’t call lightning to strike,

It just follows my voice,

I do not shut it up.

So when you scream,

Make it count.

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