Chromaciticious

Silence is the language of our love
It is the nexus of our disengagement
Like space is really the black between the stars above
Passion is the hope that fills each lament
Each moment forsaken of its sound
So very hard-hitting and profound.

We have not the parroting of song and phrase
Rather, I have but the lingering hopes of words in silence
And a knowledge that despite all solitude, stays
By no warrant do I have the license
To dream of that which we do not speak

By no reason or doubt that one can see
Can I say that you are not speaking
With me.