Silent Letters
My mind and I go wandering
Through sadness and through splendour as we sit
In twilight shadows, clasping hands in thought.
I suffer for the thought of her but smile.
I seek her out in the corners of the light,
For any simple sign or symbol to
Rejuvenate the motions of my heart,
But am caught in a motion not my own.
There is so little that I can cling to,
Whether given to me or else taken,
That can grant me solace in the face of
This apprehension without an object.
It is something like a missing meaning –
A space left, poised in anticipation
To be filled with what it has in mind already.
Missing – but not lost. But whether or not
It can be found is another matter.
Even in plain sight we often miss it;
It sits before us in upturned photos
Or half-opened letters; opened that is –
But not read. Just the mingling scents of ink
And perfume left to drift throughout the room.
The mere presence of her words says far more
Than words are able to say for themselves.
Carried on a rhythm that is not theirs
But hers; a breath that rounds on and tames them
So that they dare not utter out of turn.
How she makes her meaning is a mystery,
And neither scent nor sense can come to terms
Before the words are read – but I dare not
For fear of gaining hold then losing her
In holding on too tight or loose. Or worse:
Having to let go just when I’ve got it right.
