It’s like sign language in the fog;
it’s like shouting into the wind, this barely touch and go we do—
me vulnerable,
me exposed,
left soul-naked and alone. And words fall.
And I can’t care more than you about connection and communion, and
I can’t expect more from the unwilling. So should I stop talking, coming,
trying to imagine your silence might be full of concern, prayer, and even
love.
Though silence might not mean indifference, that’s what it feels like.
Though silence might not mean abandonment, that’s what it feels like. And
closing a door to a sliver of possibility is better than these quiet beatings,
these solo-sadnesses of what is repeated
time
after
time.
Apronhead 