We talked and talked about nothing—
though nothing, I know, doesn’t truly exist.
From the silence between syllables,
I pulled a thread of gold:
the curve of your mouth as you spoke,
the warmth hidden in idle words, your jokes.
We talked and talked.
I thought—how strange, how cruel—
when two hearts want to touch
but language betrays them.
My heart reached out—
but my tongue stayed caged,
wrapped in barbed wire
even your gentleness couldn’t unwind.
Still, we filled the space
with the sound of trying.
I said—clumsy, quiet—
"In four months, I’ll miss this."
The way we spoke of nothing,
and somehow meant everything.
I said—
"In four months,
we will not meet again."
And time,
so full of chances,
slipped through our open hands.
Maybe we should have been more careful with time.
Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to outrun it—
because now I know,
it runs faster than we do.
I know I waited
before turning the lamp off,
wading in the dark, knowing—
there will be others,
but none like you.
I will search for your scent
in the house of strangers.
I will chase silhouettes on the wall,
and talk with others about nothing—
searching for someone akin to you.
As I recall
how you said nothing,
I learned this:
it carries regrets—
hundreds of them—
and I hoarded more.
Silence folded around us
like a closing book.
I will regret
learning the alphabet,
curse the language I was born with,
burn my tongue
with all I never said.
And maybe, just maybe—
instead of nothing,
I should have said:
"I love the nothingness we share."