Transmission Loss

I speak. You spea—

No.

Start there.

I speak

Y u sp ak

spe k

s ak

The sentence is already losing something.

I have never once said the thing I meant to say on the first attempt.

I have n ver o ce s id the th ng I m ant t s y n the f rst att mpt.

I h ve n v r ce s d th th g m nt s n th rst tt mpt.

h n v c s h h m t s rs tt t.

.

A period remains.

Small.

Certain.

Holding the shape of a sentence
that used to have a spine.

Then the voices begin.

— are you sti—

— I said I'm h—

— no, I heard tha—

— you didn't, you said wha—

— I'm HERE. I'm say—

— —

— hello?

— —

— I can still hear you breath—

— that's not me. That's the line.

— it sounds like you.

— everything sounds like someone
when you want it to.

Silence.

Not silence exactly.

The faint electrical grain
between one voice and another.

The place where a word
tries to cross

and arrives missing.

The signal was never lost.

It was always this:

a wave arriving
slightly ahead of itself,

tripping on its own front edge,

turning clarity into weather.

What you call noise

is just meaning

moving too fast

to land.