Dead Frequency

Black wire bleeds a salt pointed hiss.
I sit pinned against the vinyl chair,
watching dials spin their empty round.
A white charge crawls beneath the tongue,
stinging like iodine upon an open wound.

Nothing breaks across the line.
Only the fried sizzle,
a small insect gnawing deep inside the bone.
Outside, the hill stands bald and cold,
while the sky closes a heavy lid.

My thoughts tear into ribbons.
Every memory begins, then slips aside,
making room for another that never belonged there.
Names trade places.
Hours borrow forgotten faces.
Each promise loses its ending before completion,
until every recollection carries the same bitter taste,
as though time itself has forgotten its own order.
Static is a white curtain closing,
a terrible friction breeding in the dark,
a dry tongue clicking behind chapped lips.

I wait for a voice to tear the veil.
Instead, the high whine climbs the wall,
buzzing in the ears,
sharp as a pocketknife,
leaving only the drone,
the unyielding fuzz,
the pure electric terror of the void.