Ben Cooper

The Sound of Terminal Lucidity

after An Empty Bliss beyond This World

We go out with the music
ringing hollow            in our ears. The way ahead

seems lonely but full of something, grainy
and helpless—the sound                     of a record

skipping itself smooth            until the needle finally glides
across a thick black pool        of memories

forgotten. I’ve been throwing smoke at you for years. I know
what it’s like to weigh the vapors       in my hand. I know

what it’s like to feel the pressure             against my palm
as I watch the ribbons leak                 and curl towards the sky, leaving me

behind. A frozen charge lingers           between your echoes, deep
in the bittersweet haze            of a moment’s delay. Your lips are parted,

tongue hanging from your teeth. You leak
proof               of some wide-eyed misunderstanding, some

me-shaped nothingness scratching     at the window, wanting
to find its way back                into the folds

of a mind that wanders anywhere
but here. The crack     of your breath, a beat

of your heart catching                         on your diaphragm,
giving me the remains            of the words that don’t    come naturally.

You’re back
where              it all began, where

it’s all going                to end. Listen
to the room, to the space

  between          

the notes

     (and the
and the)

and the
silence.

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Ben Cooper is an undergraduate student studying both creative writing and philosophy at Salisbury University. His work has appeared in Penn Review. He is also an assistant editor at Poet Lore. His poetry aims to provoke deep thought and reflection from his audience, exploring the absurdities of life, the mysteries of faith and the necessity of hope.