I keep trying.

A clutching hand in the blue light –
with the floor heaving steadily in time,
listening to the feedback with our ribcages
more than anything.
I fill my head with music,
and pack it in so tight that the knowledge comes running out of my ears
and there’s nothing left inside but me and the noise
and for days after, the sound of consciousness coming back
rings like a forgotten fire alarm
somewhere.
And that’s the way it is
as the crowd surges and tries to rush the stage
and safety looms up out of nowhere,
towering clouds of threat,
and it’s hard to tell him against me
from the rest of the pulsing mob.
Because we’re all connected,
and we’re all running over and through each other,
all singing and screaming,
breathing through one pair of smoke-choked lungs,
one raw throat.
It doesn’t matter who I am or who he is
because we’re no one.
We’re all of us no one.
We’re all of us one,
clutching each other in the blue light
because that’s how it is.