Hiding behind words

I know you have the words.

But I beg of you, for once throw them all out of the window, don’t leave a trace.

The sky is still as vast, the colours are still cascading into each other’s embrace.

It will all be here even if you stopped,

for a brief little moment.

It’s like you started playing a game long ago, where someone would point to objects and you would name them.

And now it’s been far too long

But you won’t stop playing.

That’s you, that’s me,

that’s the sun,

that’s joy.

That’s the grief that pricks my veins when the pillow is a little too comfortable and thoughts from the backburner rage right ahead.

How long will you hide behind words? There’s space between those letters and you’ve decided to huddle between the curves of a calligrapher who won’t tell you whether she’s penning a poem or a curse.

But what does it matter to you?

You who hide in the creaks of meanings that mean nothing and words that whisper brilliant compositions of empty embellishments.