I think we are gonna be friends

Whispers in the cold scratch the thick air

a soft, quivering sound nobody but the keenest would notice.

It bounces off walls and echos off the ceiling

blanketing the small, lonely room with holy torment.

Pleas and confessions surf the static sound

bulging with liquid desperation

and moistening the air like a London fog.

Wisps of sadness and bolts of anger

hum and twirl as a defeated soul rests his head

on a damp pillow

with only a frightening silence to comfort him.