Listening to What is Not Being Said
In the stillness of a crowded room,
where voices rise like surf,
I find a different sound,
a whisper veiled in silence,
like the rustling of leaves
in the heart of a still forest.
Eyes that widen and glance away,
hands that tremble,
words caught on the tip of a tongue,
the pulse of unspoken thoughts
dancing in the air,
a melody buried beneath chatter.
I lean closer,
not to the spoken but to the breath,
the way a heart beats
against a chest adorned with secrets,
the sigh that escapes
when the world feels heavy,
beneath the armor of smiles.
Every pause becomes a landscape,
each silence a vast ocean,
where every unturned stone
holds the weight of unsaid fears,
the longing for connection
that reaches across the space,
stretching like vines,
yearning for understanding.
Here lies the story,
woven in the fabric of glances,
the weight of a hand left hanging,
the curl of a lip that forgot its smile,
like shadows that flicker
in the fleeting light of dusk,
an echo of what could be,
if only courage had a voice.
Listen to the gaps between words,
where souls converse in quiet tones,
and the truth wraps itself in cloth,
soft but persistent,
like a flower blooming in frost,
unseen yet somehow known,
the heart’s language,
fluent in nuances, rich with dreams.
Beyond the noise,
I catch the scent of words unspoken,
a fragrance of hope,
of moments unshared,
of love left unsaid,
drifting through the air,
laced with a sweetness
and a tinge of sorrow.
I close my eyes,
let the silence wash over me,
fill the spaces,
and find solace
in what is not expressed,
in the trembling foundation
upon which we stand,
fragile yet steady,
yearning for release
in the company of each other,
in the stillness
that speaks volumes.
And so I listen,
not just with ears,
but with my heart
open and bare,
gathering the remnants
of feelings unfurling,
the quiet strength of vulnerability,
the power of being heard,
the beauty in the unspoken,
the art of listening truly,
to what is not being said.
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