Static in the Cereal Aisle

The bassist leaned into the stack

until the air was thick and black

with sound that felt like physical weight.

I left the dive bar, stumbling late.

Now I’m just trying to butter toast,

but the silence is a high-pitched ghost

whistling inside my hollow head.

I should be sleeping in my bed.

But the fridge hums low, a heavy thrum,

against this needle-thin electric hum.

It’s aggressive, how the quiet tries

to make me hear my own disguise.