Oh to weave those thoughts into words;
how I yearn to learn your pattern.
I trip, I fall, I bruise, it hurts;
misunderstanding - a deadly casm.

Unspoken words to skin, it burns;
decipher the pain I cannot.  
While speech departs, action returns;
but without breath, our bond will rot.

Thus I reach out, unsteady, unsure;
hopeful to mend our silent rift.
Take my hand in yours I implore;
pull me closer, or grant our drift.

For the ground gives way bit by bit;
rough, festering seas lie beneath.
Water our seed, do not flood it;
rosebuds thrive on a renounced heath.

It is not goodbye.
it is just see you later...
that's much easier.

Constantly chasing the future,
while clutching the past in my hands.
The present slips through these fingers,
elusive as desert sands.