What happens, Marcus, when words are not enough. You can see the icy blue silence rushing like a river in spate, not talking to the banks, not singing to the rocks, not even whispering to the broken debris that whirls inside its rage. You have the words, the regret, the promise, the hope, and yet you know it cannot bridge that soundless water.
Is that what silence is? An aching emptiness that wants to be destroyed, to be forded by perfect words?
Even the tranquil silence of the morning tilts its head to hear the birds wake up in a tremble of wings, to listen to the dew sliding down the back of tickled grass. Don’t you see that a raw silence needs the healing reverberation of words to clean its suppurated wounds.
Perhaps, silence is complete, fulfilled. It just is, like happiness or sorrow. You don’t break silence or fix it, anything before or after the stillness is yet another transition. Whether through words…
Or another silence?
snowflake upon snowflake
again and again
the wind pirouettes