Untold

The lines you write, you then erase, hasty
stencilings, thin spioder threads that afterward
leave scarce a trace upon the page.

Fresh start! you say. I hold
my tongue. This is our pact. What is
not told, you promise me, will bear
its own weight. Forgetting cuts
a picture window in our minds.

I hold my breath, hear
the weighty silence
oulling like an anchor.
Deep in your eyes I catch
the drift and snag of all those tangled lines.