If I were to paint your silence,
And how loud it could get, or how poignant,
I would fall into the trap of repeating clichés.
I would say that your silence is louder
Than the minutes spent looking at the phone,
Waiting for it to ring.
Or the silence that descends upon a neighbourhood
With a sudden power failure,
Lights going out of the eyes,
Lights going out of the ears.
I would be in danger of saying,
Your silence is reminiscent of
The one preceding a storm.
But your silence is worse,
Like a bad dream it seems unending.
Like what lies between two mountains,
Or what follows when one suddenly hangs up the phone.
Or even what one sees in the blackness,
Pouring over a well.
Your silence is a serial killer,
Claiming its victim with bullets of words unsaid.
Or every stroke of choosing to ignore.
It is like what lies between two planets,
The void that keeps them apart,
Keeps them locked in a distant embrace.