What was left unsaid

I no longer visit the country of poetry.
There is neither reason nor need.
As I write tonight,
I know not what lies ahead.
I only know that I do not seek a port with words. I speak in a tongue of 
gooseflesh and the native rituals of absence.

As I write tonight, I do not feel happiness or sorrow 
when I travel the neighborhoods of us, 
around nights like this.
My heart fills with sounds
that neither begin nor end with syllables. As such I draw you in things
I see. With some lighthouses and dreams
and an occasional call of a lonely flute.

As I write my world made of you,
the night always marks the end of my journeys.
Some in which you appear with a moth-ball moon and some
in which I sit alone waiting to form you in the steady
breath of fireflies.

As I write tonight, your footprints do not flood
the suburbs of my eyes.
I know that there was never a home
between us, Except the smudged lines of distant lives. 
Some of which have you in them and some which have me
and some in which the quietness of the word ‘love’ chimes.