A dumbness of fools
All weekend we talked, exhausting the language to a skeleton, a general idea of deep understanding. I remember little of it, except that all of it resonated gently, as though happiness has a habit of frequency. And the eloquence of silent, entwined fingers deserves to supplant conversation, but there's a time for everything, especially when we kissed like words failed, as though love mutinied, refusing point blank to translate.