so many things i cannot say
small conversation
chit-chat, if you will
with so many questions hiding in the shadows that surround
a creeper lurking in the back
uneasy stomach, held down by the weight of it all
eyes flicker, close, open
blink
blink
and try to focus on something tangible,
head swims in the circles of a dilemma who's solution is long overdue
an almost-quiet night,
disturbed by the distant sounds of cars,
the low hum of a fan
the television set of a neighbor, getting their Friday Night Movie in
before moving on to bed, following their worn routine
discomfort hangs in the room,
attaches itself to the humidity in the air
as he tries to shake it off like rain,
but he is soaked.
i know the important questions
and i know the correct responses
but i dont know why i linger to answer
when time is of the essence,
regardless of its existence
or lack thereof.
other questions that cannot be answered,
not now,
or at least will not,
for reasons of their own
and the only thing that i continue to never find reason to question
is what i see between the lines
...and more importantly, what i dont see,
no matter how hard i look.
there are so many conversations that we hold without words
that we hold with the sky and the clouds
that speak volumes
in hints and winks
and in the secrets that cannot be kept
[except from ourselves]
and yet,
words that should come do not
i do not know how to find the words i cannot tell myself,
despite the turmoil caused by their absence,
the loss of the broken words, he said,
though i doubt he ever knew how they would be received,
tattered in the heart of a kindred he would shun
...though none of that is important, is it?
as usual, i have no conclusion, so i leave you with what lies before.
~*~
chit-chat, if you will
with so many questions hiding in the shadows that surround
a creeper lurking in the back
uneasy stomach, held down by the weight of it all
eyes flicker, close, open
blink
blink
and try to focus on something tangible,
head swims in the circles of a dilemma who's solution is long overdue
an almost-quiet night,
disturbed by the distant sounds of cars,
the low hum of a fan
the television set of a neighbor, getting their Friday Night Movie in
before moving on to bed, following their worn routine
discomfort hangs in the room,
attaches itself to the humidity in the air
as he tries to shake it off like rain,
but he is soaked.
i know the important questions
and i know the correct responses
but i dont know why i linger to answer
when time is of the essence,
regardless of its existence
or lack thereof.
other questions that cannot be answered,
not now,
or at least will not,
for reasons of their own
and the only thing that i continue to never find reason to question
is what i see between the lines
...and more importantly, what i dont see,
no matter how hard i look.
there are so many conversations that we hold without words
that we hold with the sky and the clouds
that speak volumes
in hints and winks
and in the secrets that cannot be kept
[except from ourselves]
and yet,
words that should come do not
i do not know how to find the words i cannot tell myself,
despite the turmoil caused by their absence,
the loss of the broken words, he said,
though i doubt he ever knew how they would be received,
tattered in the heart of a kindred he would shun
...though none of that is important, is it?
as usual, i have no conclusion, so i leave you with what lies before.
~*~