The silence that
Stands on the
Margins of pages.
Unused places.
Often untouched,
The silence that
Sits on our backs,
Where hands fail
To reach.
The silence that
Broods in the
Corner of a room,
That doesn't
Accumulate enough
Dust to hold
Your attention.
The silence amidst
The thorns in
A rose bush,
That doesn't get
Due credit.
This silence,
Often is a lack of
Reciprocation.
Between what
I said and what
You heard.
This nonchalance
For the things,
Unsaid and unheard.
The gap never
Gets filled.
Silence
My dear is the
Ruin good things.