Some are worthy of words, some, of silence; some,
deserving of neither. Words may be misheard, mis-
interpreted. Silence, likewise, more so than any
utterance, interpolated wrongly, misconstrued.
The quiet scream most loudly in their minds.
The more taciturn one becomes, more is one able
to hear the heart’s whisper beneath the shouting.
Axiomatically, the confession must be heard.
At clamour’s obstinate exhaustion, feelings defying
words, silence no longer tenable, interposing seconds,
a sobered murmur lingers, or, bursting forth between
what is felt and thought and said, obsession’s swelter.
When there is nothing more to talk about, and silence,
even in punctuation, unendurable, anticipating all that
was before forfeited and forsworn, now eye to eye,
instead, forthwith take your leave, for it is time to go.
Maybe you are looking for something that isn’t yours.
Maybe the best way of acknowledging that, of affirming
that, of another, is to say nothing at all. Never let it be
said I was untrue, I never found a home inside of you.
À la recherche de licornes. 