When I saw you coming I walked away
stopping myself from saying your name
then realizing, all this time, that it had been
as it was: me refusing to say a word. I went
on pretending so I could keep this world
from ending. Since I've been forgotten,
I've often returned to this thought,
that holding back the truth cannot comfort
the distraught. Even as you vanished,
inside me you were wrought. The unsaid
can never be lost; a hand on your chest,
wristbands, a static screen, the path made by
a river drying, proof of burnt homes in a storm,
your favorite book, me one day returning it.
After Dean Young
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