Static

I taste it;

Tonic water before it is cut with gin,

Gum chewed into a flavourless chore,

The disconnect between your mind and mouth

when you drink water but were hoping for wine.

I feel it;

Sand fervent in the whitewash,

Legs long idle suddenly woken,

The snap of miniscule storms caught between

Your fingertips and excitable fabrics.

I smell it;

The harmonious dichotomy between bleach and copper,

Whatever the air carries before it changes suddenly,

A hint of something well known and yet

Entirely indistinguishable from its surrounds.

I hear it;

Thunderous rushing water out of sight,

An engine just starting in the cold,

The hum of fluorescent lights

Broken with intermittent flickering.

I see it;

Between the points of focus often missed,

In the patterns on rain-washed glass,

In that moment between people

who become lost for words.