when you are old

  When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
  And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
  And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
  Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

  How many loved your moments of glad grace,
  And loved your beauty with love false or true,
  But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
  And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

  And bending down beside the glowing bars,
  Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
  And paced upon the mountains overhead
  And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

--William Butler Yeats

“Don’t you have anything to say?”

Hush. Let’s just lie here and share a sloppily rolled joint, inhale instead of talk, welcome a blackness into our lungs that matches the darkness of our hearts. Exhale. It seems it is only I who knows that silence is the most tangible, the most revealing of tongues, for all my relationships have fallen into decay because I am loath to articulate my thoughts, because its always nicer, easier, simpler to not have to turn emotions into words, to lapse into a world that language cannot touch.