Silence

I know it’s a burden to make you drive while I barely appreciate the passing scenery,
But know that in my mind is an equally blurred frame of vague tinted greenery.
The pressure in my chest feeds my unsteady breath, the silence is oppressive:
It means I’m thinking.
I’m thinking that no matter how badly I want to be the one you turn to, I might not be.
I’m thinking that if I gather the courage to shatter this silence, I’ll break down with it.
The spell will be lifted and you’ll come to, wondering how and when and why the fuck
You gifted your time and emotions to this hollow body.
I’m sorry for the silence, but it means I’m thinking.
I’m thinking of what I can say to let you know that I do mean it.
I’m thinking about what you’re thinking about, about what I should be thinking about.
I’m thinking of the jokes I would make right now if it weren’t treasonous
And of a reason to not tell them anyways.
I’m thinking of how easy it is to check out when I never unpacked my bags,
Or even packed anything in the first place, because I didn’t realize I’d gone anywhere.
I’m thinking that I can’t think at will,
And I can’t cry at will,
Though I wish I could.
I’m thinking of how I wish this silence were articulate
But I’m well aware it isn’t.
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