This space where
rather than converse
we talk write text
at each other
not to, forget with
one / another
masses of individuals
so many I-s so many Me-s
screaming soundless
endlessly into the void
hoping for a response
but all that bounces back ping-ping-ping
is the echo of our own voices ding-ding-ding
ricochets and rebounds
off of each other
over and over and over and over and over
(why am I so tired?)
and over again
until the onslaught of words
congeals;
that deafening silence.
In the distance
longed for desperately
written about once again
murmurs of actual conversation –
©2021 threegoodwords