He took my words, left me voiceless,
that is, not intentionally:
because the only things I have
to say, are the things I have
to say to him.
Desire that distracts me, downplayed in
notes on love, disguised in polite
I showed him what he was to me –
what I needed him to be, but always,
I masked it – wrapped it up in delicate prose.
Time and again I let him know
the lengths of my love, yet it was
forever implied; forever unspoken:
baring my heart at a safe distance.
Questions, that burned; ate me up –
veiled and protected by a suit of
I screamed out to the world
instead of to him; demanded answers
that of course, would never come, but
I was not brave enough to hear,
It was the same for him too.
When he emerges again,
I’ll be gone.
He won’t even notice.
So, for today I am silent: nothing more
Words are now inconsequential,
Turns out, they always were.
And so it goes –
I’ll never again write, because
I’ll never again write