between the syllables
of your every word, the sound of your voice
there is enough silence
in the words we speak and those
we never allow to be born from our lips

just as when our fingers
brush by chance or sharing a seat
on a tricycle, there is enough
distance in our nearness
to rival those among the stars

there is more than enough silence and distance
in the coming and goings of things
in the transport of time and chance
this may be my madness,

so let me be mad than to be
distant and silent from you.