The sound of a soul that is
not in the mood to be alone with itself,
(this familiar dissonance)
is not a pleasant one. It’s the same timpani
that vibrates her eyes
when she matches the whir of the antiquated fan
in the ceiling of her neighbor’s tiled bathroom
with her own tight-lipped
nasal mmmmmmmmmmmmm
pushing the stale air from deep
and dropping her pitch
a fifth of a step.
The w a v e l e n g t h lets her know it’s off.
Her s o u l
sometimes does the same.
