The Weight of Unspoken Words

Left in mind are unuttered whispers of the heart’s undoing.

Laced with ineffable resonance of lingering saudade.

Veiled with volumes of subdued lament deep inside, where nobody hears or sees,

wishing I’d voiced myself before it all happened.

Before storm and stress broke my fortress of euphoria and blitheness,

wishing I’d broken that dam of tears and burnt out that smoldering flame.

I should’ve learnt to speak, to fight it, but alas, I didn’t.

I couldn’t; I stood writhing in despair and muted in that raging war of deafening silence

I should’ve, but I didn’t, and now all I have left are memories.

So nostalgic are these recollected moments, seemingly stolen from another time elsewhere,

that I cry and rock myself to numb myself into a slumber that I yearn yet despise,

that I almost feel undeserving of, yet I let myself be greedy; just this once, please.

But this was years and years ago; when I let it corrode my deepest core,

yet now, I feel nothing but vestige of fleeting embers and now estranged fragments

that I still hold onto, can never let myself forget, tenuously so.

Sometimes in my reveries I see my old pathetic self, lost in a world of rueful repentance,

of something that was never my fault, yet in my human nature I let myself believe so.

But that was long and long ago; now I have mastered the art of letting go.

Yes, I do feel the wistful remorse of not knowing how it might’ve gone,

if I had expressed my thoughts before all the damn lines blurred.

Yet now I feel nothing sorrowful, just the weight of unspoken words.