There is silence and there is empty talk.
The keen rhythm of islands.
Disagreeing. Accepting, but quietly,
muttering something else
Into pieces of old messy carpet.
Sometimes you need to be separate,
but you want to be the same,
Imagining yourself forgotten…
Like a shiny keepsake lost
In the rampage of guilt and secrets.
There is hardly laughter.
Only A quiet acceptance of each other,
While good intentions erode away…
Is that what it is?
but a quiet movement Against
the wreckage of time?
There is something about a beach…
Smelling of salt and seagulls
Seeping up through
Smooth unweeded hollow places.
Like our wasted Sorrows, sinking
Turning, without permission
To study, the aftermath