Perhaps we are
married far to long.
The words have all been said?
Have I become the furniture.
Or
Has it become me?
I offer you an apple
For dessert.
It is sweet and ripe
It's juices flow like the
Apple within the garden of Eden.
They will flow down your face
drenched in sweetness.
But you hold it like a stone.
Even as I look to the blue sky.
An ocean for the
white shape shifting
clouds that hold
no rain in their silence.
I see them fascinated
by me in a language
that needs no words.
In their silence
they say everything
I want to say?