We used to be straight-talking, but along the way we forgot how to understand

I've never really been sure of anything, but the one thing I'm sure of at this moment is that I'm unsure. We both never knew as much as the other. You smile without a face, and you speak without a voice while I sit and listen to your glossolalia without any ears, and attempt to climb Babel.

I just know I try, but I always get closer to God before I get closer to you. Whatever's vague, I'd never compare it to silence; I wouldn't do that to you.

Anything I'd kill to look and know, I'd destroy it with meaning, because your mind is safeguarded in a shroud that forces me away whenever I get too close to how you would react.

"No, not like this."

You put it there yourself, and as your friend, I want to remove it for you, but it's all a labyrinth of unspoken words, stories and the occasional time where we forget to breathe.

It happens to me sometimes. I don't want either of us to be scared, but the space between seas couldn't hold its weight on the rocky waters, until we figure out how to become Moses together and separate our differences and our screaming obstacles. The only religion I follow is my own, but faith is something I can't hold without reassurance that you'll never fade away.

I can't help but see her, because we both know how it feels, and I'm certain that whatever you hear in no words at all, you can decipher and place a haze in the middle of the sentence that I can't remove, keeping desires at bay while they all wonder whatever happened, and how long it would take for the plan to be decided.

You hold out your palms, but I can't figure out what to give you; my hand, my head or my heart. I wish I knew.

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