Silence is calming, annoying, deafening, and drives you mad.
It can be awkward,  comforting, and sweet.
It's just what you need before the lights go out.

But as much as I know about silence,
and all its little paradoxes,
I don't know how to define our quietude.

What does our lack of verbality do other than push me to insanity?
Could it be the kind of silence that's honest and meaningful,
or is it disconnection that leads me to fall asleep
wondering who you are--who is the man
who's arms I allow to hold me close,
and how can I love him,
if I know nothing about his kinetic soul?