When the quarter moon sets, 

                                     Something is perhaps known, or even

                           a line descends 

                                                  revealed in the moonlight,

between him and him, them and them, her and her

                                              yet, and yet

it breaks, in some shape and form, it is lost a little

          just a little              in each other

not realising, just disappearing in each other, even when it breaks

              even time loses itself when this moment begins; 

and yet, only yesterday 

                        the sun hid itself behind the smog

clever to conceal itself, receding all light to a small shimmer

that visage, concealment, that regretful weight

                                         of silence.

Once the sound breaks, there is difficulty in mere breath.

                     Each word

becomes a paradox          each view is warped, elated.

 All those old feelings    like a slow walk in the night

        descending into   

                                                       somnambulant     

phases of memory,       halted.

                                                  Those who count the lies

forget the meaning behind them.

Lost nights, tired arguments, dried tears, a final kiss

they disappear                  and then leave their mark.

Sometimes it is best not to talk.  Each feeling is different 

                               than the rest,    

yet many                                                     are silent.

I wouldn’t have told you this before, mistakes are 

                          too easy when I speak 

But easy to keep                             when no one speaks.