Draft 2: Our Silence in the World We Build

[TranquillityBase]

Every station emits static like a gentle storm
that would have woken and encouraged us
to stay inside—me listening to music,
you enveloped in a book, and curled in our own blankets.
The pulse of conversations spanning countries
has gone from what power lines remain.
There's always something to be said,
so when there's nothing being said, the air between us
becomes too sacred to form into words and we can hear
a blue jay calling from a dormant cable.

I like the mystery of this poem, the "stations" and the "power lines that remain"........I wonder what stations and why only some power lines "remain".  (Not asking, just pointing out points where poem swerves into the unexplainable).

Nice climax into serenity.