When Words Say Nothing, And Silence Says Everything

When I see the rain, I think of you. I think of how you used to hate it, hate how it made dime sized splotches on the fedora you wore to work. The rain ate up the light, you said, you said it made everything so dismal and dull.

I always loved the rain, loved how it smelled against the hot pavement. The rain makes you appreciate the light, I said, I said the way it smells forces you to remember your other senses other than sight.

You took me to a waterfall one day, one day when we were still so giddy to see each other. You took me to the ledge, led me blindly. And I tripped on your shoes, or on my own shoes, or perhaps on nothing at all, because your hand still felt so lovely in mine.

Our hands fit smoothly together when it was my turn to lead you, lead you to a place neither of us should have been. Had we been caught, I would have laughed, laughed at how our silly romance could be so easily contained by rules and regulations and boundaries. But we weren't caught, weren't caught but still contained.

The road between your doorstep and mine wore down my tires, wore them down to treadless black circles spinning endlessly on the unchanging grey beneath them. And though I travelled that grey path time and time again, time and time again we found ourselves no farther than when we'd started.

We disagreed on the importance of silence, the importance of space between words, the importance of no words at all. You frustrate me with your silence, you said, you said it seemed as though I was holding something back from you.

I never meant to hurt you, though hurt you I still did. And although I was sorry, I'm sorry I never said. While you always claimed I should speak, speak to express my mind, mine was not one that could easily be spoken of.

I'm sorry means nothing, means nothing of consequence, and consequently I never said it. Sometimes I wonder if you'll ever know, know that in my silence I'm screaming apologies, apologizing for the way I treated you. You'll never admit that I did you wrong, wrong as I may have been all along.

There are so many things I should have told you, should have showed you. Should have is the key phrase, the phrase that deems what is generally acceptable in a situation like ours. But I don't regret it, don't regret my silence. I know my silence spoke more, more than any of the words I ever said.

In my silence you can watch my eyes, and in my eyes you can watch my soul. In my silence I cannot lie to you, lie to you and tell you that everything is fine, everything is alright. In my silence I can kiss you all the same, all the better. And in my silence you can still know that I care, care about you, and care about us.

But we disagreed on the importance of silence, silence and rain. While you saw a dreary day as the absence of light, light shone through the cement ceiling of clouds to my perception. And while you saw my silence as a lack of words, words could never have adequately described my feelings at the time.

Better to be silent than to be meaningless. Better to learn to love the rain than to live in a perfectly sunny, arid, and lifeless land.