I understand now when they say he spoke with a silver tongue. His words flowed from his lips like beads of mercury, mesmerizingly beautiful, but toxic nonetheless.

I turned to him and asked "why?" As the record droned on in the background. He opened his eyes and smiled as the tapping of his feet slowed.

"In our final moments there is silence. I fear that final silence." The song began to reach its crescendo and he held out his hands as if he were embracing every note. "So let there always be music."

...And I reached out, like the hands of a clock, uselessly grasping at time; and like a clock, all I could do was tell of it's passing.

And I knew in that moment, you were to me as the moon to the wolf: infinite in beauty, but impossibly far. And for this I cry.

Pick up your weapon! Grab the pen.this one can't go unwritten, should I say it again?

The first line came easily,
so I seized the moment,
then stumbled through a jumble,
half memories, half queries.

It had seemed beautiful
when I spoke it to the night
but now wasted, wounded,
like a lasered tattoo.

One thousand large books
a painting never finished
a song never heard

There is an unwriteable in my life,
An unspeakable in my mouth,
An undreamable in my sleep.
Such a hurt,
That I cannot even skirt
Around it, hint at what
The unpermitted is.
A blank space in my head
Once remembered,
Now consumed.
As a doe absorbs her kittens,
I unlearn myself,
Unwritten from existence,
And unspoken evermore.

I've always wondered what it would be like
To go to sleep without the heavy weight of unwritten words on my tongue