What we can’t say
can be heard
from within the vagaries
of what we do say.
To pitch topics
so far removed
does not save us
from what we really mean.
So what we can’t bring
ourselves to say,
left unsaid does not mean
that the thought did not occur.
Of course we then do not ask,
what thought is that?
As we silently ponder,
not asking either
for what feeling drives it.
And so the muffle-dom lingers
as a delicate balance
of stall-points unanswered
yet rising in the brain.
A polite frenzy of silence
to follow as feelings
are gnawing at the mouth,
daring the lips to form and say,
waiting, almost impatiently
for the mule work of breath
across the voice box to blurt out,
for a stampede of poignant words
to ventilate a fix
of emotional dregs
yet to be forth coming.
But willfulness does not allow it.
And the stress of the facial muscles
work against themselves
without a voice to follow.
Tectonic plates within the skull
will quake and shift
before this unshared process
is out and loud about!
Vocal chords will have lounged
passively remiss
in the hammocks of the mind.
Massive cloud formations
of the brain,
steeped and towering
over a gridlock’s reply,
will have come and gone unnoticed
while cogent points of interest
are mutely explained by absence.
The meld of one’s seethed feelings
into a clear and pronounceable task
is both safely and surely unsaid.
Therefore at a bus stop
of conversation
where two souls wait,
there are no arrivals
or departures of word.
The world for the two
is still seen
as unrelated moving parts
bounding all around,
collectively all together,
yet so separately defined.
It is intimately discreet setting
for a private unsaidness unfolding.
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