The World Is Too Full To Talk About

There’s something in silence

that sounds almost like a sigh, the hushed

sort people usually reserve for

visits to the art gallery where

they look at the paintings of the old masters

and feel important

or small

depending on what sort of people they think they are.

I rather like the silence, that long pause, that space

seeming to whisper some old, sweet longing,

something none of us quite grasp,

as though it’s just out of reach

-when really,

The longing is everything,

compressed inside

what we already have.

Filed under: Writing Journal