Broken-down Poetry: Unsaid


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Thursday, November 18, 2010


Some things are better left unsaid.

“Talk to me,” he says,
caressing her hand
and fondling the wrinkles
of her numb fingers.
She says, “I’m fine.” Not
that he asked.

They walk with naked
stares into the night.
She pulls out
her hand from his hand
and shoves it into her pocket.
“Baby, come on. What

She thinks
of a better lie to tell,
but she can’t. So she says
the same thing again
only slower, harder.

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