I look at you.
You look at me.
I look at me looking at you.
I think thoughts.
Thoughts like litter.
Words like seed.
Do I pick them up?
Do I plant them?
Is it already too late?
Has the wind caught them in the wires of my mind.
Has this furrowed soil suckled them in?
This frightens you.
It frightens me.
We are both frightened in the silence of the questions,
in the grip of what's left unsaid.
Fear does nothing but stir the wind.
nothing but dig a trench, die it says.