Also, the intimacy to be understood
Costs more than I ever have in my hands.
This intoxicating habit, this autopsy of hours,
sitting on the carpet with my knees folded in,
replaying a three-second pause in the hallway to see where the air went thin-
How quickly I make a crime out of silence.
I am the judge, the witness, the only one hurt.

I sit here clutching all the evidence:
a cold glance, an unsaid word, a breath taken late.
But the room doesn’t care about my trial.
The light outside just fades into evening,
ordinary, quiet, completely safe.

To finally drop the case.
To let a quiet room just be quiet
without proving that I broke-

perhaps.

~Janya

Categories: Poems

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