Are we having a silent conversation?
Smoke signals in poetry.
Sign language without hands.
Thought-to-thought transmissions,
arguing over politics,
perspectives,
and strategies.
You never speak.
I never hear your voice.
Yet somehow,
we keep meeting
between the lines.
Then come the bystanders—
bums handing out unsolicited advice,
like sitcom therapy
with a canned laugh track.
Firing off misses
and calling them wisdom.
Especially when
their shot percentages have declined,
their plans never worked,
and their lives don't represent
the very ideas they're selling.
I don't need bad advice.
Bad advice arrives
with expensive consequences.
So I write. You read.
The critics critique.
The spectators speculate.
And still,
the mystery remains.
Are we having a silent conversation?
Or are you simply acting
weird
towards me?
Because I'm writing for therapy.
And you keep coming back.
Word?!?!