What is Not Said

Watch closely
as I move my fingers
against the grain of the fabric
that makes up your thoughts.
Those intricately woven threads
are becoming the life line
I return to for comfort again
and again in the memory
of a time when words
were not needed—

where complications of chronology
and space washed ashore
on the white beaches of the mind
with answers stuffed carefully
into the bottles blown thin
in the shape of our hearts—
the messages clearly
calls for help
and salty love.

Knowing all that has been,
how do we extend our hands
to the divinity that lives
within the other
on days like today
when sleep has gone
past our bed,
and pain lives
in the large bones of our legs,
making travel toward peace
seem impossible?

I reach out anyway,
like Eve asking forgiveness
from Adam for handing him the fruit
angels dared not to taste,
and step in
to embrace
the soul’s companion
as if nothing stands in the way
of gathering grace
into my arms.

There are no words necessary
in this sweet rising up
to look you in the eye and finally see
everything that truly matters.
Tracing letters with our tongues
would only diminish the joy
found in silent recognition—
understated in the jazz
that trembles constantly
in the knowing notes written
in the encyclopedia of the body.

What is not said
laughs,
absorbing the language
of longing like liquid gold
condensing around a lifetime
that will never be lost
on words
or with such foolish games
that we mortals
have learned
to walk
within.