Perfect Silence
June 12 2007


After long enough
there is not much to say,
sitting in a room
sharing space.
But the silence hovers patiently
like an impression sculpted from sand,
waiting
to receive its plaster.

I sit in soft mahogany leather,
its well-worn crease
fitting me with the ease of habit.
And she like a cat
in the crook of an old beige sofa,
her legs sleekly folded
together.

The vast middle of love
not given to celebration
moves wordlessly
but sure,
like two contented cats
grooming each other in a patch of sun.
The silence is only broken
by absent-minded asides
or earth-shattering revelations;
it’s the day-to-day that goes unsaid.

We read.
We look off into space.
I watch her
marvelling at her unaffected grace.
I wish I could touch the inscrutable core of her being,
but settle for this —
that two solitudes can co-exist;
and the sublime intimacy
of perfect silence.