Silence is golden when every last whisper you hear is discordant and cacophonous. But it can also be an agonizing bed of bloody nails as well.
But nobody ever says silence is an agonizing bed of bloody nails. It isn’t pithy. It isn’t witty. It doesn’t roll off the tongue nicely.
They don’t like it if it doesn’t roll off the tongue nicely. They don’t like it if it’s jagged and ragged and raw and real.
They don’t like it if it cuts. And who can blame them. Who does?
They like it nice. They like….
Flowers. Meadows. Sunsets.
Absence. Yearning. Longing.
Lost. Perhaps forever.
The nights can be long, lonely and hard and the waters deep and dark. Here. in this place of silence. Here in this place of where are you. Here in this place of please.
Please. Speak to me.
Clingy and needy? Probably.
But no less real. No less painful.
Here I am.
Fleeced in golden silence.