Chasing the Chaos

Whisper

        There is a sort of quiet whisper in the night, 

        The rain pouring down the window pane, 

        The albicant light leaking from the broken shades,

        The unspoken question that lingers between us like an abyss.

        There's a quiet sort of whisper in our touch, 

        We cannot confess our love, just yet. 

        But our eyes have met and met. 

        I've traced your lips a thousand times from across the room, 

        And you roam through the steps of life until we are farther apart. 

        We trust, we fall, the light filters through our lives, pulling us

        until we have made choices that cannot keep us immutable. 

        But our varying conflicts are not disputable. 

        We have not said word, nor spoke of this light

        That travels through your fingertips to mine, 

        The nights pass and we watch each other change, 

        The irony lies in our silence, in the words we do not say, 

        But I would not ask you to leave for me, I would not ask you to stay. 

        

        Because in the end of the passing of the sun and moon, 

        When our lives become adjacent no more, 

        And I look at the titian, erythraean of your halo, 

        The cerulean of your eyes, your sable lashes, 

        I will not pretend that those long nights did not occur, 

        That those words between us did not impact my decisions, 

        But I will not say a word; just smile, in a silent greeting, 

        A sad greeting, that only touches fingertips with what we once were, 

        And what we once were not.