The Silence of Your Eyes

I’d like to slip behind the silence of your eyes, to wander the remembered roads your footsteps once believed in— to see what you saw, to feel the ache of your longing before the world taught you what not to reach for— and to find the child who once asked why— and is still waiting for an answer. I’d sit where memory holds its breath in the dark, listening for the story you never gave voice to— the one that made you flinch behind your stillness when no one was watching, the one buried so deep even your dreams can’t plumb— and what spirits hurry to dance and whirl beside you in the hush of 3 a.m. And if you let me near that secret turning place— where wonder once opened before fear learned its name— I would not speak, only breathe beside you, and keep the silence warm until you remembered the sound of your own voice clear, unhidden and alive.