WE SPOKE THE SAME LANGUAGE

Suddenly cognizant of the

silence that surrounds,

& the echoes of her voice, after she had left
the room.  Saying little things to her at which she would react  

perhaps later on, in subtle ways, allowing me a window
into her world.  Those slow Sundays spooling from the mist, the grey-silences,

& the erroneous world brought to a halt by our love,
that spoke so intimate between us
interlocutors.  Always a question that begs
consent, or to push

the borders that lie between us. 

& the malleability of language that seemed to

suggest some deeper-intimacies, in time-distant, in tomorrows we may never reach.

Feeling our way as if by intuition, the intimations that lead us through

corridors that quivered with glints, & shadows the

shape of leaves, in a situation the

world had not fully accepted, in a trust that had forgiven

what society had not.

We the actors amidst law that bound us to a higher order,

cards bursting from our grasps-of-wax, & a word

balanced on the fringe, those midway-points at which we intersect.

Slow-sequences into which we may find a foothold in our own chance-circumstance.

The subtle pains we caused each other

in our uncertainty, or perhaps an unspoken-forgiveness

in the tone of her voice,

the mirth welcomed into hands

that hummed with sadness, a cognizance that the

world had not-yet-realized, our love which was perhaps older

than we ourselves, & younger than the world

that worked to womb us in its silence.  A quiet-lull that slipped from shadows.

The silken-dream from which we had awoke.  I spoke to her

almost in a whisper, & her eyes widened with a hope that night  

had brought before us, a choice we ushered    

into life, knowing full well

there was no need for speech.