Far from the cluster of stars, her pinched voice
could not help but gasp at the tightness of chords
ready to explode the words written, not said
of many quivering thoughts drowning into her
chimeless sea, floating with lamentations unheard.
She folds the moonlight in soiled papers
reminding her of torn dreams which refused
to glide, of hearts that crossed different paths
with such throbbing intrusion and regret.
And like a rebel of the night, the coal in her
throat licks the danger of a flame
set to walk on fire like burnt ash is to gas,
leaving her scorched in an hour when he walks away,
without giving herself that one chance to say
what the heart needed to reveal all along… that if they
simply engaged or talked from the gut of how
their fingers can wash the tears without pride,
then her inner echo would have a name
and the movement of their eyes could sing,
far beyond the language of riddled words.
But her pinched voice would not open
as if it tread on heated eggshells…
a missing link of what chokes her breath.
…….. . . …