UNSPOKEN

 

Unspoken

Clumsily stumbling through another morning and afternoon,

In this sterile office space, where fluorescent lights hum,

And the scent of stale coffee clings to the walls like a sigh.

The clock ticks too loudly, a metronome to my chaos,

Each second a reminder of my unraveling resolve.

Another failure, on my part, to keep my feelings,

Readily apparent, on a surface, professional level.

Your shadow shifts across my desk,

A quiet intrusion I can’t ignore,

A magnetic force that tugs at my carefully built walls.  

Overstimulated by the totality that is you,

Before me, too close, in proximity,

For emotion’s comfort. Your voice cuts through the din,

A melody that lingers, soft and unyielding,

Echoing in the hollow of my chest.

Your laughter spills into the air,

A siren’s call that pulls me under,

Drowning my attempts at detachment.

I shuffle papers, feign focus,

But my hands betray me—trembling, uncertain,

Caught in the gravity of your nearness.  

Un-free to express, digress, process,

All that is in between the lines,

Of the sarcasm that is said,

And the weight of magnetism of everything that is not (said).

Our words twist and turn, a practiced dance,

Each quip a shield, each retort a spark.

Beneath the banter lies a current,

Electric, unspoken, heavy with intent.

Your eyes catch mine for a moment too long,

And the air thickens, charged with what we won’t name.

We’re tethered to this script—colleagues, nothing more—

Yet every silence hums with rebellion.  

In this crowded room, I’m alone with you,

The chatter fades to a distant hum,

And I’m left tracing the outline of your presence.

The way you lean into a thought,

The casual brush of your sleeve against the table—

Details I shouldn’t notice, but do.

My heart stumbles over itself,

A clumsy waltz of want and restraint,

And I wonder if you hear its uneven beat.  

The days blur into a quiet war,

Each one a battlefield of composure.

I rehearse neutrality in the mirror of my mind,

But your name slips through the cracks,

A whisper I can’t silence.

Do you feel it too—this pull, this ache?

Or am I adrift in a storm of my own making,

Reading meaning into the mundane?

The question gnaws at me,

A splinter lodged too deep to pull free.  

Yet here I am, day after day,

Drawn to you like a tide to the shore,

Unable to break the rhythm of return.

The risk is a pulse beneath my skin,

A thrill I chase despite myself.

Perhaps one day, the dam will break,

And these words—locked tight in my throat—

Will spill forth, raw and unfiltered,

Bridging the gap from silence to sound.

Until then, I walk this tightrope,

Balancing on the edge of confession,

Hoping for a sign, a fracture, a truth,