There was a need for it, his words…
A want unspoken.
The longing of his lips over syllables,
carefully measured with a pause
a space of breath
Husky at night when the curtains were drawn.
Or hoarse early morn when the birds sang.
Soft-spoken on rare occasions,
a cascade of tender nothingness.
When all became breath and air,
caught at the back of his throat.
But rarely, ever so rarely.
Lashes, they could be
Harsh and hurtful
When his eyes told stories his lips couldn’t
And all became quiet
I re-learned the flow of him
through his silence