The Anatomy of Silence 

 

Silence has bones.

 

It bends,

across the dinner table.

Sits in between,

two strangers;

in a crowded bus.

 

And sleeps in between us,

after an argument.

 

Sometimes it grows older than us.

Sometimes,

it becomes heavier than words.

 

And sometimes it becomes the only language,

a house remembers.

The Museum of the Unsaid 

 

I went to the museum

with an apology,

I had rehersed while coming.

 

Beside it,

were the phone calls;

I never made.

 

In between the letters,

I never sent.

 

And a love,

that arrived;

too late.

 

None came to visit them,

except for me.

 

Every evening,

I returned to dust the glass.

And a broken mirror;

blood gently drops on them.