the voice on the other side of the wall can hear me thinking.
it knows what shape my thoughts will take
long before I have formed them.
this voice is smooth and vertical,
speaking at a volume only I can detect.
the voice says things to me in steady zephyrs
with the intonation of chrysanthemums
and the clarity of beryl.
the voice on the other side of the wall has a way
of penetrating my inner senses
like an oboe playing in pianissimo.
this hidden voice knows the colour of my perseverance
and the temperature of my angst.
when I press my ears to the wall, I can hear the voice breathing
with insulated, rhombic lungs.
through the brick and sinew separating us,
I listen carefully to what the voice has to say.
its consonances are circumferenced in absolute zero.
its vowels ebb and flow.
the voice says to me, in its own diametrical pronunciation,
that there are rents and fissures in the air around me,
appearing and disappearing like apertures,
stretching and bending the oxygen that I breath
into algebraic hurricanes.
the voice tells me that there is a room on the other side of the wall,
a room where it dwells.
a room without a ceiling.
a room without a floor.
the voice tells me that there is something else in this room,
something I once saw in a dream,
something waiting there, for me.
tilting my head, in the direction of its cadence,
the voice navigates my amnesia.