Silhouette

Limerence.

I know I don't have enough sonority
to make sense to anyone here but me.
All I spurt are stranded words
that does not have a home.
It's all the grief that never left,
the ones I've learnt to live with.
My mind knows no better
than to let the thoughts gush,
and I find no one that can decipher
the rhythm in my mess.
I write anyway,
write past the cess and the creed.
She flows into rivers and streams
broken by the silt of stillness.
Once in a while
she flows past obelisks and bulwarks
I've built along the way.
But she sways
when faced with snags I cannot predict.
And my disaray makes her shatter
into an extorbitance I cannot afford.
This agony goes beyond the hands of time.
It will stay way past
the "wonders" of juncture,
the juncture that probably cured you
but it breaks her apart.
The diminutive resolve I own crumbles
under the slightest pressure of my thumb.
And I can't stop the ferocity
or the weight of the ramification
that I raise against myself
in the court of sorrows.
You can't see her past the murk
that surrounds these confining twines.
Clawing my voice in.
I'm entitled to feel it all
even when the waves crash in
drowning you in all we were.
I perch upon the home we've built,
nothing but the walls standing
with ceaseless doom and no hope.
And she braces me as I fall apart
within this claustrophobic shell
where I sit and swallow the sounds.
Because I'd rather eat my voice
than watch you break
over the consequences of your own words.
~ si.