I was not going to say what I might have said.

I might have said anything, but that was not going to be it.

 

That thing,

The thing unsaid,

Lies there

on the floor

Like a broken child.

 

It is silent, insurmountable eloquence

occupying the exact emotional center of the room

placed directly between you and me

and anywhere we might want to go

 

It can't be ignored.

 

It is becomming a notion that

has the body and heft

of a word I'm not allowed to use.

 

Turn the word over

Finger its rough edges

Feel the weight of its bony chest

bearing down on the spark that tells you when to breathe.

 

And this word responds to an unspoken touch

in our silence it swells

like a drunken fungus

A forgotten Sampson, chained to the temple wall

Awake

Incontinent

Shaggy and bellowing

Lips pressed tight against the wailing horn of life

And we can't see or hear a thing

but what we have left unsaid.