A poetess is not as selfishas you assume.After months of agonising over her marriage of words—the bride—and spaces—the groom,she knows that as soonas she has penned the poem,it’s yours to consume.So, without giving it a think,she blows on the inkand the letters fly awaylike dandelions on a windy day,landing on hands and lips, on hearts and hips.But more often than not,you can easily spotthem trodden and forgotten,becoming sodden and rotten.Yet, she will continue to makewhat’s others to takebecause selfishness is not the mark of a poetess.

I and my silences keep talking to each other.

For it wasn't the secret--the secret that wasn't a secret anyway--that led to austerity in our lives. It was the austerity that led to the secret. And what I had been marked by, probably most of all, was the austerity. It had made secrets in my life too. Or silences, anyway, that became secrets. That became lies.

We finally realize this one day that our solitude is a blessing for us!

...The words make our silences easier--they're the current that runs under them.

Not everything needs to be said. The silences, the words that aren’t spoken, lead us to the questions we should be asking.

More is said in silences than words ever could.

Maturity is when you can understand someone's silences and the pauses between those silences...

The silences weren’t awkward. For me at least. Because I was there in the moment with him.

You are there with me, aren't you? I and my silences keep talking about you.