Rain to the Silent One

If talkers are rivers,
then I am the drought

For what is not profound
be better left unsaid

What joy rarely found
is happier scarce instead

And when that Tuesday rain
comes pouring all day

Silence erupts to thunder
from my jaw locked lips

I sit sprawled in bed
taking warm, careful sips

Place paper down on white sand wood;
trail kisses with my ballpoint tip

Let droplets on the windowpane
be the end affair to silenced pain.

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