Sometimes silence/or at least my silence/resembles this: [ . . . ]

//I don't know if you need this
I don't know if you want me
I 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?

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