There are sounds we cannot speak
only listen to silently,
clinging to despair like an old friend
and imagining away the distance.
The lonesome call of a train whistle sounds through
the valley like an old friend.
The solitude I sought was always waiting for me,
here, right in front of my eyes so blurred with tears
I could not see it.

You said "There's more to life than dreams,"
but what dreams,
what moments of clarity held me when
you were away, those lost moments
shattered by the low hum of your voice, filling the air
like an old friend.
You still inspire poetry in me,
a flood of words rising from below the surface,
thoughts unheard, image haunted,
the low rumble of your voice on the horizon.

These mountains do not speak
but their enormity silences us in our steps.
For a moment, I failed to recognize myself,
my words unfamiliar, staring back at me in contempt.
Who crafted these long silences,
their delicate architecture threatening to bury us
under its sandy weight.
There is more to this moment than words can tell,
more than simple songs...

A sound that was either the rolling of drum or
of thunder left us dangling, mouths wide, and we
melted back into the space between words.

And, like old friends, we parted, drifting
back into our shelters: mine of words, yours of silence.