Except here.

Yawning. Hoping that this night is free.
Free of everything.

No notes of distance. No notes of indifferences.

Just the hope that friends do talk.

IF that is what friends do. Or want.

Careful how I ask. Careful how I want.
Careful that I don't beg nor intrude.

Sighing on the air.

The hope is high. Yet the queasiness is higher.

I don't dare to beg. I don't even want to ask.
I just hope that my brain thinks too much.

But the days are dwindling down to 6 words in days.
So I am holding onto whatever strength I have.

Just not to cry. Just to not let my emotions carry me.

Soon the words will only be here. No more conversations.

I know it will happen. I understand my place.

Soon.  Only times if a response is when I write.

Here.

So I strive not to say too much. Hint that it affects me.
I don't even glance anymore. I just hope.

I even dream. Alas I love my dreams.
Even the nightmares. For then I realize I am still real.

Here.

Still moving. Not noticing the lighter words. The lesser is greater.

And soon it will all end.

So then I will hurt. I will cry. I will keep my head up.
I will learn. Then I will let go.

So that here is only where I speak.

Here is where I will feel.
Here.
Here.
Here.

Then I will be there looking away.
Not noting anything. Just talking to the wind.

There I will be. Not alone. Not lonely. But standing as one.
There.

And now. Words compel a voice. So that the mind doesn't erase.

Would I want that? No.


Here I am. Not waiting. Not even noticing that the words are gone.
Forced they come. But I won't think on them.

There. I am okay. Forward my feet move. Allowing the hurt to dissolve.
Discussing in empty conversations, the pounds of weather and civilities.

To that is what our words have become.

Except here. Our words speak volumes.


In silence.