Mountains of syllables linger in the air
A whisper of the wind, short lived,
That turns quickly into a tornado...
Swirling, your face scarlet with anger.
Darling, you can strain your vocal cords quite well,
For my eardrums are sure of it.
And darling, you can create a flood from your corneas,
For the dampness of my shirt tells me so.
You can hurl insults,
Nasty foul mouthed arrangements of sounds,
(Who knew so many four lettered jabs?)
That maybe you never meant in the first place.
Every word that leaves your mouth
Seems to become a venomous snake
Constricting my airways
Until I can't breathe...
Can't choke out the words that, at this point, wouldn't make a difference.
Can't grasp enough oxygen to paraphrase what you need to hear.
There is silence,
(Who knew it would be the worst thing I had to listen to?)
And then nothing.
You've walked away, easily predicted...
Mentally I say to you,
Though the telepathic waves seem to break to shore too quickly,
'I'm sorry.'