They are long and stick out, like the rest of me.
They wiggle and shimmy and flap in the wind.
They are red in the sun and blush in the shade.
They were once pierced, but those painful holes have been filled.
They stand aside shyly while the rest of the world spins, taking note.
They help the mouth form conversation from the sidelines.
They are the ones behind the camera, making everything run naturally.
They are satellites, receiving earth-shattering breakthroughs in plain sight.
They heed voices.
They sit on a plush leather couch and persevere through my wailing whines and complaints.
They bow down, being ambushed by a flock of hair, and try to hear a whisper of God.
They try to stay conscious through the piercing scream of a fallen survivor of the monkey bars.
They perk up to the lispy six-year-old pleads to buy the crinkly, crunchy thin mint cookies.
They live unnoticed.
They are unappreciated.
They are never acknowledged.
They are but the bloaty sky itself,
Blanketing the earth where we live.
Soaking in our every move and word.
They are universal…
They are always there, hidden…
Like never-ending record players…
With a new song on every track.
So we open our minds,
Close our eyes,
Hold our breath,