Tin cans and string were not our worst means of communication, given how lost we are anyway, given that our only compass is the soft thump of blood passing under our fingers. Given that the stars are all muffled in our closed eyelids. Like the synesthete who was blind, we have found our own colors where colors never had been found.
While you slept I replaced your telephone with tin cans and yellow string, looped over telephone wires and stray dogs and the moon. There is no danger in telling secrets that echo as whispers but vibrate into space through and into those thin bright strands and bird's feet and softly polished metal. I still don't know how long those threads could last, or if anyone noticed when they fall apart.
Secretly, I buried a copy of that telephone, ran it under our feet through continents and around earthworms and at the bottom of the ocean. So that the fish could hear the same secrets, if secrets can be connected by similar string. I could only orient those connections by the magnetic north of my own pulse, but perhaps all those blood vessels were map enough.
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