the piercing of your eyes
the ones that could express every sound
nothing has to be said
you translate it well
the frost bitten, the dewy, and the shattered
all in one slight change
one slight movement
what a difference it makes
a quiet grunt, a shift of your shoulders
the discomfort and the like
the loneliness and longing
the gentleness of the rounding when you’re kind
the sniffle as you cry
but always silent
always unsaid but i am able to comprehend
to decrypt the message in your eyes
the gesture of a saint
and the pain of the lost and harmed

© simon whittle — from lovers’ tiff: a ballad