between us

this anguished work,
turning love
into distance,
closeness into separate,
makes my heart ache,
draws the center 
out of me and
parches my throat,
makes the unshed tears 
scream in my chest.

unspoken doesn't cut 
any less deep,
just hides itself 
under skin and bone
so others may guess
but never know
unless told
in whispers,
in blackness,
so the leaking red
doesn't show.

what matters in the end,
he said,
is the condition of
your soul, 
is it still intact
or has it been 
wrenched free,
not released, but
ripped out
scattered
among the words,
all unsaid,
that lie between us.

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