Evening Rapture

It's so quiet when people sleep.

When sounds sink to deaf ears,
the air is crisscrossing
over aluminum strings.
The ribbons are restless
while we rest.
They vibrate with the inconsequential noises
of the night,

ceasing to play with a daylight fervor.
When we toss
with our dreams,
it's not enough anymore

to move them to a note.
They sigh softly in harmony

with everything that gets ignored.
They hum.
I wonder if my thoughts
are enough to move them.
They seem loud to me,
filling up my head.
I think maybe my whole body
is filled with strings,

and my thoughts can play them through

to my skin.

If my head were not my own,

or I just didn’t have my head,

would my strings hum?

I give in to this special silent music

to drift off, though,

to where my strings sing

and never hum where I hear them.

This is the second major edit of "The Hum" that I did for my literary magazine class.  I actually like it so much better than the original!  Having peers that would really criticize my work made me see things that people weren't understanding, and I think that I get the point across a lot better, this time.  :)