Your footsteps are as untrodden as my unspoken words


If you knew me when I chased the smile in my mirror, recognition and a siamese nature would not be the first thoughts to cross your mind. If you knew me when I trapped my thoughts in cages in my mind, maybe my affinity for wiry order would crystallize in your cognizance. If you knew me when I had no words to speak, surely you’d want to hear me now. 

A cartographer doesn’t begin a map with the entrails nor the borders—before introspection comes circumspection. An affinity for the old as well as the new is the hidden key to magnifying what’s laying around you, hidden or not, because your sight deceives you in what may or may not be.

Yet, you still sully the reputation of your ears in regards to my words. You never have much to say, and you don’t expect me to keep pace, for there is only one pace to begin with. In this race toward understanding and, dare I say, rapport, the gunshot of disqualification has pierced my ears and heart because I stepped off with my left foot. 

Explain to me why standing still is more winning the race than losing; explain to me why this feels like a race yet also no competition at all. The seconds are ticking, and the sweat trickling down my temples is a sign of trepidatious desire that I am going to lose this race. Again.

But, the only way I can lose is by giving up.

Here we are at the starting line still, and, yes, it’s not horrible, but there is so much more than this mutual anti-exhibitionist display you’ve performed for me that I’ve mimicked. There’s still so much more. There’s your smile which is the one I’ve now become enamored with. There are your thoughts which I want to free from the gauche grace of your mind. There are your words that I want you to speak.

So speak.

Let me hear from you, and maybe then you’ll want to hear from me because I’m tired of you hearing of me. 

There’s more to me than you know, yet I know you know of it, and you let me know of this. This knowing knowledge is banal if not applied. This wistful wishing for wisdom is fruitless if you’ve given up on the harvest. This ‘you’ is worthless if this is me.

I am worthless if this is what I am to you.

So speak, and I’ll sing back.