from trying to like
the vegetarian ravioli
she whipped up at her place
to say a trademarked name
and turn another female off--
probably two.
"I like background noise,"
she protests between bites.
You mention the crickets
the window fan, the creaking
of old wood in her Victorian
and the voice that you're using
for no apparent good.
"Not on the table, then,"
she states in singular compromise
though the hockey puck's still quiet--
only listening, recording words
without her innocent blue light.
You think the next day after work
in your shower, where you focus best
that from seven years of living alone
silence to you is silver--
not a perfect gold, but close.
Silence is waiting for an ambush at dawn--
war paint donned; no prisoners.
Silence is an Irish goodbye
when it's warranted.
Silence is a humbled contrarian
biting his tongue 'til it bleeds.
Silence is the comfort
of purging your apartment
and tossing out mementos
with no one there to see you cry.
Silence is the black towel you lay out
to protect the sheets when necessary
for modified passion in the moment.
Silence is what makes you appreciate
the least important fingers
on your most important hand.
Silence is giving keys to your lover
yet receiving none in return.
Silence is the slight hangover
caused by a splash of weekday wine.
Silence is the peace
that calms you after labor
in the heat and in the dirt
and alongside those who loathe you.
Silence is what you hear at Union meetings
when you know better
than to voice your concerns.
Silence is the list
of heartaches you don't write.
Silence is when it ends
as it should
instead of well.
Silence is a friend
who is never inconsistent.
The same applies to family
since silence knows your blood.
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