For the record let me tell you
that your silence has reached me.
The clusters of green pepper in the forest
dangling like earrings from ears of tall branches
slice the night air pungently
like a sword lancing silk
and I know that sound.
It is the same as the silence
convulsing noiselessly between us.
Let me tell you
that I imagine your hands
rippling in the cosmos
touching everything - stars, moon
the ankles of darkness, the elbows of waiting...
everything but this void festering
between your tongue and mine
This wordless blister
This mute lesion
defining us, the way a scar defines an accident.
Let me tell you
that the world is no longer hunger, thirst or spasm
or satin or silk or velvet...
It is this withdrawal -
this pull out of resonance
that once bed rocked our lake,
docked in our animation
but now lies buried beneath scabs of choices.
I watch it glisten and harden
like sugar cracking at boiling point
... growing opaque as it coats our lives.
For the record let me tell you
that the pain is in the decision
not in the silence itself.
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