We could say a lot when we weren’t busy talking.
We could watch the truth of us like television if we wanted
To trust that much. It’s precious few
Who will undertake to keep safe another’s
Most might commit to being nominally responsible for some portion
Of its contents
Declared and described clearly in the language of wants,
Even while knowing that store of goods, truly assessed,
They can sort of sign on for something that is
Sort of defined,
In denial or
It’s changeable. And if it doesn’t work out,
No harm, no foul. Though it can be noisy and messy.
But a few,
Who trust in their own unspoken voice,
Knowing those meant to hear it will, can be
Somewhat more still, and
Can hear a lover’s heart speaking itself hoarse;
Telling its everything.
For them, there is no worry. Only the obvious. And
It has no words either.