Bee by Leah Mitchell

Our fingers touch. We pause.
Softly, they interlock as we come together to meet the silence.
I hear your breath.
We stay like this for a long while.
Our faith keeps us there.

Then I hear it.
I can hear it. I can hear it.

Static. Signal failing.
Humming with that electrical charge.
A buzz of energy, swaying.
I can see mesh, metal. A framework.
It cuts across itself, sharp and precise.
It cuts into the temple, stinging
Segments seem to shift.
Air rushes through, whistling.
Its moving. Vibrating.
Its black.
Its silver.
Its nothing.

For a moment I open my eyes,
Hope that a hive has taken residence in the room.

I ask if it is always like this.
He swallows. ‘It is my home’.