When there was nothing left to say, no words worth speaking, those times were the loudest.
You lived in the noise of it all, trying to find the quiet places and spaces for you, yourself.
When you spoke, the words wouldn’t come out and you found that there’s no relief.
To the string,
jumping in the air,
knocking over porcelain.
Anna walks towards the path, which turns into an arbour; Just before the Arbour, a man stands alone, rubbing a leaf between his palms.
Perplexed and intrigued, she asks, “What are you doing?“
Silence follows. She repeats the words.
He looks, “I’m collecting ideas“.
“Ideas for what?“
“I write poetry…“.
“You’re a Poet! I’m a poet to-“