There is a sound
between the stations,
a pale and restless sound,
like rain falling
through invisible leaves.
It gathers in the walls.
It settles inside the wires.
It waits.
The old radio on the shelf
breathes in bursts of silver noise.
A voice appears,
breaks apart,
returns as fragments.
A laugh.
A name.
Half a sentence
floating in the dark.
The room grows smaller.
The lamp hums softly.
The window trembles
beneath the weight of distant thunder.
Everything is connected.
Nothing comes through.
The air itself seems uncertain.
Tiny shocks pass
from fingertip to fingertip.
Dust rises.
The curtains stir.
Somewhere,
far beyond the reach of sight,
a storm is rearranging the sky.
The noise continues.
Not loud enough to silence thought,
not quiet enough to ignore.
It fills the spaces
between words,
between heartbeats,
between one memory
and the next.
Perhaps all longing sounds like this:
an unfinished message,
a doorbell heard from another street,
footsteps fading
before they can be recognized.
The radio crackles again.
For an instant,
the signal is perfectly clear.
Then it disappears,
leaving only that familiar vibration,
that invisible thread,
that feeling of standing
between two worlds,
listening
to the static.
About the Creator
Alain SUPPINI
I’m Alain — a French critical care anesthesiologist who writes to keep memory alive. Between past and present, medicine and words, I search for what endures.
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