THAT WHICH GOES UNSAID...

In those days when we were in the process of breaking everything that we had built together: of deconstructing each line we had carefully woven into poems, of whitewashing the walls where pictures of roads had been painted, you had given me a diary, along with your whims. What made you choose that diary I wonder. Was it that I wrote profusely and I could write anything that I wanted? Or Was it that you knew that the end was near And you wanted me to drain myself of you into those pages? I never would know what could have been, Had I held on to you as you did... Maybe our tortured souls wouldn't have made into these pages...maybe the blood of our souls that stains our hands, would have throbbed our hearts, as we grasped each other tight.