i think our story will probably need more pages

waiting for you all these ages
falling for you in stages
touching all your bases
following all your traces

i think our story will definitely need more pages

meeting you in all those places
us passing through all those phases
this heart of mine races
as it braces

for our story that needs more pages

silence is grey
ashen
it clogs the air around me

silence is a stone in my mouth
cloven
hard-woven
that no one can see

silence is absence
unbeing
not there
empty
which I can’t heal
which I can’t feel

silence is
silence was
silence will be

.

The warm sun rays filter through the foliage, and the smoke whirling from the wood fires strike a path across them to create the most beautiful patterns. The wind itself is really chilly, think an AC set at 16, but the sun rays are warm to the touch.

Echoes of kids on their early morning football game bounces across from the next hill and the deep roaring note of the ever present Bagmati River highlights their high pitched giggles and shouts. They know something I don’t.

Dancing through both these sounds is the whispering conversations of the leaves and the wind. The branches nod sagely, agreeing with the wind’s message. The birds call each other in tweets and chirps and toohoos, relaying the wind’s far off news. The orchestra is heartbreakingly beautiful. They too know something I don’t.

Is this all for me? Or am I an accidental audience to this eternal song? This is something I do not know. And, maybe for the first time, my impure hunger to know stays sated. There is no need to find an answer, the answer isn’t necessary. This, finally, is something I know.