something I couldn't name
the most meaningful exchanges between lovers are unspoken--
They have no verbal equivalents.
No words, not yours, not mine, could adequately express or define what passes between us. It can never be reduced to the mundane realm of language. A system of signs.
Even this (can it even be called a poem?) is inadequate.
Syllables on a page. Signs referencing speech sounds. Lines of text that can do no more than trace the faintest of blurred outlines. A hint of an image.
Always out of reach. Like so many things. Caught in tangled limbs. Splinters of memory.
Fragmented. Fractured in the blinding light of a gaze. The blurred outline vanishes the moment you attempt to pinpoint it. Grasp it and you are already undone. The image is gone.
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