Finishing Her Sentences

She’s out there somewhere
speechless
and I’ve got nothing but words at my feet.

Words. I keep arranging them left to right
and then right to left again
to see if they will make any more sense that way.

To see if they will call her out.
I’m dropping them out the window, screaming
Look Out Below.
Smoke signals.
Braille.
Cyrillic.
All the little letters
in the periodic table.
Arabic.
French.
Mathematics.
I’ve got them all.

These are secret things we no longer keep secret.
We don’t live in that world. There are no more diaries
hidden in the mattress. There are no more
oh please god
or prying eyes,
little sisters,
twisting open locks.
There is no more betrayal.

We all have megaphones.
Loudspeakers. We are all veiled.
But we surely want to be heard.
She wants me to finish her sentences.
And when I found her in the void, I wondered briefly
if we pass each other some days, in real life,
where fingers brush strange legs and coat sleeves.
Unexpected touches,
blushing,
stumbled stammering apologies.
Did we touch crossing the train station platform
trying to make our connection to this Siberia?

I have language, darling.
I’ve always had language.
In fact some days I have nothing but language.
But you have all the love.