Silence

If I were going to write tonight,
I would look for the words to describe her pretty feet —
like golden shells in the summer sand.

But I have nothing to say.

And if I were going to write tonight,
I would find the words to explain how a heart can drop to see such things —
a hand on a knee, or two on my hips, reflected.

But I have nothing to say.

And if I were going to write tonight,
I might search for the words to explain how this waiting is an eternity, and how you don’t try but break my heart anyway, and how this wanting grows raucous and rampant —
echoing like a bell ’round a hollowed-out soul like mine.

But I have nothing to say.

And if I were going to write tonight,
I would look for the right way to explain these secrets we hold in darkness, and how I wish it might be easy to drop these hooks and let fly, let loose, let go into this abandonment of judgment —
but without making myself smaller in your eyes.

But I have nothing to say.

And if I were going to write tonight,
I would try to find words to explain how these tender, delicate seedlings that always sprout new and golden-green from black soil are a birthing we must hold close to before they drift into seed and wind —
seedlings weak as words, and sharp as eyes, and dancing like hands, and fragile as friendship.

But I have nothing to say.

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About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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