Those of us who think we know the same secrets are silent together most of the
time, for us there is eloquence in desire, and for a while when in love and exhausted it's enough to nod like shy
horses and come together in a quiet ceremony of tongues
it's in disappointment we look
for words to convince us the spaces between stars are
nothing to worry about, it's when those secrets burst in that emptiness between our
hearts and the lumps in our throats. And the words we find are always insufficient, like
love, though they are often lovely and all we have