i try not to let you hear it. it being: thunks. the sputtering tension of a wire, vibrating. a trapped mosquito in the middle of the night. you know, i saw them all winter. it’s too warm. another bad sign welcoming me home.

i can’t tame the loudnesses but i try to keep them, mine, out of earshot. not buried, just muted. a palm against the strings. it becomes thunk after thunk. it’s like hiding a fart with a cough. it usually doesn’t work.

even though i am trying to keep these thunks mine they carry over. when we are together you feel my joints and stare at my face. you know the rhythm better than i do, sometimes: you find a gentle syncopation to answer back.

when we are apart the thunks spill over into the mail. i guess it’s like i have written new songs that i can’t wait to play you. but rather there’s a thunk of the heart knuckle and breath. my handwriting stays shaky.

i’m embarrassed. these are not your thunks. keeping them all to myself seems wrong. maybe i’m too selfish. maybe you like the rhythms and maybe you want to hear the songs when they’re still a pile of unpolished thunks.

the thunks are there for a reason. perhaps they need to be heard. they smooth out over time, i think. someone said: these letters are a pulse. you like to feel the thunk in my chest. the thunks keep time for this life.