We cannot write silence.
The beats.
The pause.
The breath.
The way it aches
and persists

and begs that,

if only for a moment,

our consciousness is only a whisper.
our bodies,
our lips,
the air that passes through falling chests
and stillness.

A melody of emotion.
Sleeping in the quiet of a heartbeat skipped
a word lost to the wind.

The wickedness of reticence
Encapsulated in air and time.

The moment stretched too long.
Hesitation perpetuated in the grip of fingernails
pressed into palms.

We cannot write silence,
but we can try.

to find a way to immortalize emotion
to create space
in the ceaseless drone of words that speak and spin.

I cannot write silence. But I can write
tears and years
and the burn of long-stretched lies.

I can write goodbyes and hellos
And dozen ways to say
I love to hate you
Or
I hate to love you
and sometimes
I cannot tell the difference.
Silence.
The space I have upheld for myself.

I love to hate you
Heart.

I hate to love you too.

I cannot write silence.
But I know it.
and I have held it in my hand.

You can tell they care by the way they look at you

How with a glance they peer into your soul

and I can't help but look away at the thought of someone liking what they see

it's an uncomfortable thought, someone peering into the darkness -- willing to seize it

With the same pen and paper as the last love letter I wrote, I now write this.

PREAMBLE:
Everyday he'll suffer in silence and I'll be content with the thought. The same hand that wrote loving words is the same hand that brought tears to his eyes.
Over betrayal and deceit hidden in plain view with a longing of decadence and validation.

BODY:

He choose carefully, or so he thought - the wounded of the flock.
But he knew...somehow that I was different.
Unable to be read like a simple book, I am that of an enigma to most, alluring to others.
I could have loved that side of him -- the part unrestrained by persona. The damaged part, carefully tucked away.
But the beast must be fed by the tears of the innocent,
a pervasive pattern of loving women he made love him back.
He fed his soul with their sadness.
For he deceived them for proof of love and in it, he destroyed himself.
Day by day, he'll look at me and realize, like the last - he was wrong.
That someone had cared and someone was hurt, and that was not I.
And I am grateful -
for not loving a traitor.
To his own cause or mine.
Because every time he looks for validation in the tears of others.

I will not be there
and he will not find me.

What I fear most
Is that intellectuals and scholars have never been understood
And that I stand among them
Like a ***** in today's time
Unworthy and misunderstood
The slightest Infraction a death sentence to a meaningful existence
If, for only a second, they could see things how I do.
How grand it could be.

The silence is deafening
a whirlwind around me
of loose paper and dark thoughts
Sadness and supply of no importance
within the world around