i have learned to love in silence —
eyes no more than just a glance,
arms engulfing my frail stature,
fingers grazing your flesh,
lips knitted tightly
so not to speak of
how irrevocable i could love.
this quaint affection which i give to you
was returned by no more than
just hushed confabulations and regret.
and so i learn to love in silence —
for you are much more of an art from afar
that i do not dare wish to taint you
with my mere nothingness.
for i cannot speak of
how i would toss and turn
in the dead of the night,
wishing of what could have been;
how i am besotted with your existence painted in bright and vibrant tints.
loving in silence
had become a matter
that my heart is wont to do
and not an ounce of surprise
rushes to me when i hear nothing
but the soft zephyr.
the cicadas cried, so did i.
— The End —