Your Silence.

When I trace back to the thoughts of last night,
I find myself without breath.
Choking on the weakness of words
and every spoken sentiment.

And in great irony I reflect,
to times when these words were gold.
Enabling me to feel beyond the pain
and find my peace in fiction,
in otherworldly dreams...

Yes, an aside in reality saved the best of me,
from every screaming demon I had
locked inside my head...
...exacerbated by pills and booze,
ill vices used
to subdue the pain of passing time in solitude.

And lonely I was not,
with a tired pen in hand,
enabling me to muse about a vision
They called love.

(Oh, But they were so wrong about Love.)

And therein lies the irony,
consumed in your mighty spell,
a spell that puts my former
salvation to shame.

Those words that carried me through
medicated isolation,
seem to only fail me now,
as I struggle to find a way to capture you
in a paragraph...
In a sentence...
God help me, in a word...
but a language conceived by anyone but you
is paralyzed to the challenge.

You are far beyond words,
in some cherished place I'm not worthy to describe.
All the world's that I've dreamed on paper
pale in comparison to you.

And as you held me closer,
and waltzed under the rain,
You leaned over my shoulder,
whispering 'brilliant' just one time.
And I suddenly felt the need
to sever my right hand
to give to you as a gift for saving
the saddest girl poetry's ever seen.

And all I wish is to write you a sonnet,
a story,
a novel,
maybe just one line of prose to give your
love a meager glimpse of what it's worth.

Your empty page I keep beside my bed,
but in it I see the brilliance of all the silences I savor.
I cannot captivate what overwhelms me,
what seduces me,
what inspires me,
what gives me reason to breathe.
No, the words I once held dear are
ill equipped to give you justice.
So I choose to find that satisfaction in silence.
Our silence.
A silent dance in the rain with you.

(Yes, they were so wrong about Love)