non-day

in the plenitude of words, (though mostly silently said),
we find ourselves, suspended, refusing to acknowledge, the tangible voices of saying what we feel.

in the magnitude of pauses, excruciating long and quiet pauses, punctuated by yes and no
we could only, defeated, accept to say less, the futile actions that give false promises of forgetfulness.

the longer the pause the better.
the longer the words, the more we hope they conceal.

beneath the surface, you tear, I sneer, the hollow farce of patience. killing me softly
with not only words, but in not wanting to say much,
you close your eyes, pretend to sleep
as I labour through my hypocrisies.

above the pain, you muse, I lose, the deep lust of pleasure. reviving me shortly
with not only mornings, but in the dreary waiting to sleep,
I close my eyes, unable to sleep
as you punish us with silence.

the shorter the wait the better.
the shorter the morning is, the less we realise the dream.


And as I sleep, and as you write,
separated as we are,
less is more, more is less
I find myself, inadequate, to show us, what it means, to be still.