He can never be silent, despite the silence that seems to surround him,
Despite the things he fails to say, the things he fails to explain to me.
He is made up of words made into skin, blood and bone.
He is all words, you can feel them in his touch.
His body is restless, his mind composed and collected,
He moves constantly, never able to sit still,
Something here is bound to go wrong.

He told me his head felt over used and worn through,
He told me secrets that he whispered in the ears of people he told me
Not to tell.
He promised me that he would stay,
But he’s only around occasionally.
Is this his idea of what it means
To be there for me?
Is this what he means when he tells me he is doing
All he can?