a hand scribbles something down
on a napkin in a busy cafe
inspired or just bored
i cannot tell
how is it you write
what you write?
or who is it you want to read it?
i must believe
what you say
still imaging what you really think
leaves me afraid
what might you say
if i ever think to ask
what i cannot promise burns holes in me
what i cannot say
sits waiting on my tounge
for all my excuses
for this silence i have none