UNSPOKEN THREADS

 

Unspoken Threads

The Absence of Pretext

No solid reason hums in my chest,

no clever excuse to lift the phone—

just a hollow itch,

a whisper I can’t dress up

in witty words or sly disguise.

My intentions shimmer,

clear as glass,

too fragile to cloak,

too raw to shape into something

you wouldn’t see straight through.

I fumble, unsure,

of how much room might linger

in the frayed margins of your days,

the unwritten edges

of your sprawling, storied life.

Tracing the Past

Day by day, I turn the pages

of chapters you’ve already inked—

their lines unfold like maps,

creased with time,

stained with laughter and shadow.

I glean the echoes of your yesterdays,

the scuff of boots on dusty trails,

the murmur of voices long faded,

each revelation a pebble

dropped into the still pool of my mind.

They ripple outward,

drawing me deeper,

a quiet archaeologist

piecing together

the ruins of who you were

before our paths brushed close.

The Space Between

Inside this restless skull,

thoughts spin like moths

around a flame—

sold on the dream

that our nearness

might weave a tapestry,

lush and intricate,

threads of you and me

knotted tight in vibrant hues.

I see it in flashes—

your shadow spilling into mine,

our voices braiding in the dusk,

a richness that hums

beneath the surface,

too deep to unravel,

too vivid to fade

under the weight of miles.

Tangled Names

I’d keep you caught,

your name a snag

in the brambles of my breath—

a sound I’d cradle,

roll over my tongue

like a secret prayer.

And I’d be yours,

etched into your cadence,

a refrain you’d hum

on restless nights.

We’d tangle like vines,

rooted in the soil of shared silences,

stretching across calendar squares—

days bleeding into months,

months stacking toward

some distant, shimmering horizon

where the space between

shrinks to a sigh.

The Horizon’s Pull

Yet here I stand,

phone cold in my grip,

reasonless,

teetering on the edge of a call

I can’t justify.

The air grows thick with what-ifs,

a haze of hope and hesitation—

will your voice greet me

with the warmth of dawn,

or the chill of a door left ajar?

Still, I dream of that depth,

that closeness carved

into the marrow of time,

binding us across

the vast, uncharted sprawl,

until the margins fill

with the weight of our names,

written as one.