I write so much but say so little;
read so many omens and hear nothing.
And I am left wondering,
had I chosen to take a chance
in offering to wait with you,
would I have had the chance
to sit and wait, even in silence,
until it was time for you to go?
But I write so much and say so little;
read so many omens but don't know
how to listen.
Perhaps a lack of discomfort doesn't mean
that every thought that has been rendered
in pixels on screens is welcome as well.
Even less so, sounds that travel
through the air.
How I wish I can just sing again
like the way I did in one of those evenings
when witches in disguise summoned brothers.
However, this time around—
I don't know the words.