Unsaid

Sometimes

I find the things we've left unsaid.

A knotted mass

Of syllables:

Curls and coils of

Declarations

And

Hesitations

Broken off midway.

A tangled ball of yarns

Unspoken.

They get lost in the

Everyday exertion

Of trying to

Make sense

Make a living

Make the ends meet and

Make up for time lost.

There's a weight to them,

Quietly

Calamitous.

Sometimes

I'm moved

To try 

And tease them apart.

See if I can settle them into sentences,

Trace the sounds into shapes

On the sandy shores of my mind's eye.

Find some order and form

That we might turn towards

And see,

Even from periphery,

What lies between us here

in the unwieldy

Silence.

But as you draw near,

On my tongue

Poised

All the unsung,

The waves come crashing -

Race up the shore

To claw at the sand,

Dragging back

The unspoken

To the wild

Writhing

Ocean.

I am left breathless,

Salt sprayed -

With nothing to say.

So I suppose we sit,

Gaze cast across the lines of waves,

Close enough to hear you breathe.

The chasm

Of the things unsaid

Wedged in-between.