Conversation

Before the unsayable becomes
the topic of our latest silence,

our eyes are like perfect strangers
feeling they must have met. Before

I say, I wish only to say this
with the exact gravity

it had when it happened. Before this
was when it hurt the most.

He was unreachable, no matter
how breakable the glass was.

And us, too, before the memories
found their spots to fill, to make

sense of this finished picture.
The space, given by the absence

of mist from what breath could
condense from inside, has settled.

His mouth was slightly open
and the gap between his lips

seemed to hold so much.
And if I listen closely between

the cries, the hiccups, I could
have sworn I would hear

my name. You would hear yours.
And we would mistake the turning

of the world for his voice.
The unsayable is about empty itself.

I am waiting for you to speak.