They can’t hide it, these two,
their coy playing with this risky silence,
and the way their buttoned down lips,
the most complex metonymy
poets could wrangle with.
I watch them from
the not so surreptitious corner of my eye,
and wonder how they manage
to pass so much unsaid through empty space,
pregnant with beautiful failures.
And there’s always one in every coupling
who needs more than this,
the dark haired one’s knees
earnest, exposed, pink,
magnetised to their essential pole,
like compass dials
seeking acceptance speeches.
There’s always one
that needs more than love’s silent inertia,
and would have words to wrap around
like a bright sari, tactile, yielding,
and would have tongues say
what they can’t possibly know.