The Lines

You read it;

The space between the lines,

The words I don’t write,

The things I don’t understand,

The things I can’t comprehend.

You see the gap that stops time.

You watch the moments I can’t express.

You read the letters I don’t compress.

You reside in the intervals

When I can’t make sense of it all.

You compile.

You compose.

You inspire.

You transpose.

I see a break or a slot that needs filled.

You intake what my spirit yields.

I don’t have to author some stupendous text.

You consider what will come to me next.

In the pause

You proceed.

In the loss

You feed.

I don’t have to supply what I don’t say.

I don’t have to deny that I’m afraid;

Afraid that I’m not enough,

Afraid I’m not tough,

Afraid because 

I feel too damaged to love.

I don’t have to write it because 

You read it.

I don’t have to say it because 

You see it.

I don’t have to speak it because 

You hear it.

What’s between isn’t blank,

It’s where you dwell,

Where I can be frank

And say I need held.

I leave text unwritten because 

I’ve been conditioned to 

Let you take up residence,

To give you precedence.

What I don’t type

You know.

You make my lines

Your home.