when we don't talk



things are finite
colours subdued
and the tinkling of your laughter
terrible by its very absence.
air seems brittle
sounds made hollow
reverberating through me.
each breath is dragged in forcibly
put to work and then discarded
replaced with another and
another as I simply exist.
I long to reach out and touch you
heal the pathway.
'kiss me' I whisper
but will you hear?

by Trish Shields
092903



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