That quiver at the corners of her lips,
that nervous tick, quickly covered,
that first hint of an expression
only squinting eyes can see,
spends as much time simply being
as considering
what its purpose might be.
That uneasy moment once begun,
so quickly undone – but never truly undone –
is enough for me to know that with every word she speaks,
her silences grow,
filling in the sound with silence,
our conversations with ghosts,
our intimate moments so quickly coated in dust and comments unsaid
that it is quickly becoming impossible
to read the parts of us still unread.
Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
Seamus O'Shaughnessy, Jr. 
I sometimes feel this way about you! From sharing my writing, to cheering yours on, and finding old letters, I can look at how much more is unwritten and sometimes wish for a sturdier line of communication between us.
I typically trade in those petulant moments for gratitude: You are expressing yourself and growing in skill with an audience that is both supportive and graced by your artwork. You are not unread ❤
I think that pouty version of me would have tried to sum up the above with “I love you” whereas now I translate it into the action of supporting your work on the weekends when I drink coffee between shifts.
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You wrote a poem yourself in this reply! I hope you’ve been well 🙂
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