We had silent conversations

he would touch my hand, i'd die a thousand times over and then emerge, painfully alive, in some peculiar place, alternate reality, where nothing was the same or how they meant it to be, and i loved it.

his lips pressed to mine and my eyelids dropped in fear, intense longing. opened again, coaxed by flesh, warmth, only to stare intently mindlessly at patterns in all too meaningful sky, carpet beneath shivering toes. you knew.

arms, wrapped around and holding, i'd had something before but it was not this. this, i remember, sealed faith in.. love, or life. everything.

just to hear your voice, i'd ask you, despite the wordless eye whispers that could have revealed deepest universe secret. fingers through broken smile lips, around lost words, pulled closer into my world, you couldn't know. wouldn't see torn heart bleeding, slow pulsing want, longing for you to stay just a little longer, i let you..

we had silent conversations.

So silently beside me
Or across the room we sometimes caught each other in conversation looking up at the same time locked eyes. Spending so much time together, growing together tangled until there were parts we were not sure me or you. Maybe if the future was the past we could have been more cautious. Now I speak to you with your own thoughts and there is no easy way to pull apart. As the afternoon calculates its passage of shifting shadows sun through leaves out the window, alone together and together alone on the clean sheets we do not even listen to each others words anymore. The dialogue has moved beyond left us behind, and for that we are frightened struggle recklessly to reassemble our own identities.

not all silence is peace...

...and the breaking of such silence, no matter how necessary, cannot always mean grief. or so i thought, or so i'd like to think when apparitions of past silences greet me. sometimes the resemblence is so great, the similar vibrations so strong, i barely manage to separate myself from the concrete past and the unwritten future. when you're facing something that looks familiar, something that brought with it and still inflicts such pain, your first reaction is to freeze--as if motion and speech are the only two facilities which disitinguish us from inanimate, but above all, emotionless objects.

because of this, i could only speak with my mind, eyes, and actions in the doomed hope that someone might hear. i never believed it to be possible, that one could understand hidden thoughts and unspoken words.. so when i imagined i heard someone conversing with me in my own mute language, the possibilities were, unerstandably, limitless. we spoke of nights with no end--the dark clouds rolling swiftly over and past the moonlight like black cats running from headlights and porchlights that pierce their all-encompassing darkness; hiding out in cheap motels and watching the sun set and rise over the same impossible ocean; and catching planes to europe during the off-season, finally settling down in some cottage in southern france. together, we were everything the other needed, wanted, could imagine to be true.

and one day i heard my silence for what it was worth.. hideous, discordant, screaming violently without using a word, it showed me what a frightened little girl i really was and how this world is made for those who are willing to pit their words against the quiet of the wind and how much not only you, but those who are safe from your voice, stand to lose. silence is with me still, sometimes, and everytime i hear it, i wish i were deaf.

...not all silence is peace.