waiting.
this is the kind of vicious silence that makes my stomach scream.
the hands of the clock claw at its own face,
as if to move on would excruciate, lead to self-destruct
time is forced; the minutes drag, kicking & screaming
and you say nothing.
my eyes burn, staring, pleading your mouth to move,
waiting in agony for your lips to quiver
in hopes that a sweet wind from your breath would pass through and destroy the quiet,
a quiet which is not entirely unlike being deaf,
except i can hear my own worried breaths which beckon you to speak.