Dialect of Home

The nights were almost unbearable the first week
It was the quiet
So quiet

I measured time in heartbeats
Listening for the telltale lub-dub; lub-dub…
The dead do not suffer the silence
In this new found void, I tumbled

I learned to cherish that quiet, though
Partly because, I realized I didn’t miss the nightly language of home

Random gunfire from across town
The sirens that followed
Or lack thereof, depending on the mood of that night

The bikers and their language of revving
They do like to hear themselves talk

Here, though, the only wail was that of the coyote’s
Singing to each other, or just to the night

The odd semi on the state highway a mile and a half away
Making that low rumble sound as they down shifted in a hurry
The language of Jake and his miraculous brake

It was the third week of my stay in Gainesville
When I realized that it wasn’t the silence that harried me so

It was me
For the first time in 13 years, I was alone with my own thoughts
I was alone with a stranger, whom I looked in the eye not a month before
Declaring that I needed to learn how to be by myself
Never considering the terror I would endure
Those first three weeks
In Gainesville, Texas.

It was then that I cherished the silence for what it was
A respite from the cacophony of society
So that I could finally address the cacophony
Within myself
Learn the language of me

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