I have been writing letters to amend our silence.
Stanzas rush in.
They foam, glisten
and slide back away
before I have time to learn
how not to fear their cold kisses.

I begin to say farewell to them
before they retreat back into that
pregnant ocean.

I am brimming.
Churning with unnamed wishes
that I want to whisper into the ear
of a future lover.

I agree to hold my tongue.
I take on the practice of not needing.
Was it only last year that I begged for passion,
that I asked for some precise incision.

I must atone for each need that I forced into silence
to continue to prove my worth to you.
Each self betrayal rushes back in in waves
to depict clearly how easily I will abandon myself.

There is no need
only an impossible dream.
While I was practicing muteness
you kept yourself pleasantly distracted.
Every day you were not fully present
was an abandonment.
There will be no further instruction.

I wanted to name it a great love.
I wanted to win his affection.
It was only an exercise
of excavation,
of turning the self inside out.

An exercise of learning
the faint distinctions
between longing,
and heart break.

I prefer melancholy.

I now understand why lost love
is a tale of trauma
rewritten again and again.

And I listen.

I am listening.



visual artist unknown


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