Sometimes silence/or at least my silence/resembles this: [ . . . ]//I don't know if you need thisI don't know if you want meI don't know if you're angry
What seems deceptively seamless becomes something seamed, nonetheless, something agreed upon, tenuously, something inextricably dependent upon response/desire/the desire to continue our story, this uneven exchange of ideas and emotions and sensations. A response is the empathetic return/You are not alone/the necessary echo of what is offered during a moment of vulnerability.
Tell me you understand where I'm coming from. //
Are you comfortable? Are you angry? Are you sad? Are you happy?
Often I worry that my silence discomforts people: You're mysterious.
Are you keeping secrets? What are you not saying? What do you think about me?