The Food Court

Silence now,
as no sound presses my ear,
no heat of voices,
no fingerprints of biology:
sense and dreams.
So, the speech comes
harshly real,
a thing that must be registered.
When I see the strangers talking
her arm reaching out
for his, a familiar anchor.
I can't watch them hard.
It's just that the thing of speech
draws me, the words. the things of words,
spittums of life.