most days I find a space to talk to you, I never quite find the right language to use though. my words often pause in the depth of my mind, as I wrestle with their appropriateness. they shuffle on feet that don’t know where they stand, like a stranger who has found themselves in a conversation, they are not sure they have truly been invited in to. do I even need to speak? is silence enough? is it too much? without seeing your face it’s hard to know. sometimes I feel the need to shout, to wait to hear if there is an echo, a bounce-back when I cry into the emptiness. so sometimes I just sit, sometimes I am still, often I fight the urge to shift and resign, I struggle not to impose upon the secret conversation, and play in sand of my choosing, or stare too long into the water at my own image. my senses are wild beasts that run and roar, as I become still they strain and pull, for a moment I let them lead me, and then return to the silence. sometimes the silence speaks, images painted, melodies playing, words form that are not mine, and I listen. and I listen. most days I find a space to talk to you, because some days you talk back.