Resonance

There was a sound.

A sound they couldn’t identify.

The sound was faint, almost inaudible.

They looked for the source.

It was not the idle rustle of the sheets;

They had been still for far too long;

They could suspend movement and become a photograph.

It was not a clamouring phone.

They were not in the realm of reality;

There were no cell-phone towers here.

It was not the fading gasp of a dying song -

The music had stopped playing,

 Long forgotten.

It was not the echo of past misgivings;

Doubt had seeped out,

They had learnt to speak in silence.

It was not his hand,

Exploring her face,

Seeking a dimple. 

It was not the muffled whistle of a distant train,

It was not the din of ruffled leaves,

It was not the anguish of the fluttering curtains,

It was not the turning page of an open book,

And not any of the other mundane knick-knacks that lay about in his room.

It was not the shrill scepticism of the worldly-wise;

No, this sounded like the reply.  

It was the reply.

It was a gentle hum

Produced by an empty overturned bottle,

Trying to register its presence.