I felt like posting a poem.

Clouds at ground level.

We drive
small,
incongruent silence
through the evening’s
twilight hour.
I am fascinated by the shadows -
crunchy tan leaves
articulating the
wind’s shape,
voices echoing after-dinner
elation to
unseen listeners.

The awful thing is,
I haven’t found any
reason for asking.
I can’t seem to care about the colorful
how’s and why’s of your
unspokens.

When traveling through fog,
our light
merely brightens the
dense, grey-cold air
around us.
(Perhaps when we quiet the light,
we’ll finally see in the darkness)
You say sure,
we’re not lost,
without any reason

Over one billion people
understand English
and yet,
we find ourselves yearning for
reciprocal, unspoken
moments
the most.