• This love is silent.
    Silent, as in shouting.
    Shouting, as in speaking.
    Speaking to the silence,
    And thinking, what is this?
    Why do I hold this pillow so,
    As it were to be someone, smiling,
    Smiling to the darkness which holds me in its arms,
    Depriving me of the horrid light,
    Leaving me in the starry night.