My Tacit Love –
A scroll—But a scrap
of food for a soul,
minim-ink pointed at
'Never Here'

Is the tout
when I need
but a-veiled life indeed
like a word without rhyme
–without meaning.

On the sleeve of language,
where with 'Where'
and 'How are'
You mean the same,

She is the furthest being from difficult,
and I am a failure
unable to describe her complexion:

She is
As life was
When the Moon was but a Star
till specified thereafter
in auxiliary breath
and a small cache of words.

She is a soul attired
in applause to relate.
And when I was with her, I felt
This – a rather long journey
only to arrive and speak—perplexed.

She is
My Liaise,
Never my Own
but I love her.