" . . . "
He passes her the pen
he’s been turning
between his fingers,
its barrel warmed
by indecision.
She takes it,
aware she’s touching
the instrument
of whatever thought
he hasn’t voiced.
The atmosphere,
skews enough
to edge along
unprinted dots
. . .
-
Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 9th, 2026 05:08
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 28
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
I love the restraint here, Rik...nothing dramatic needs to happen because that tiny exchange already contains all the uncertainty and possibility the moment can hold. Even the empty space feels occupied by what might come next. Beautiful work, my friend! 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Muchas gracias Tittu🙏🏻🕊️
It is the unsaid that is read in these dots that thought or feeling that lack words or the courage to speak them. It holds in suspension the future. Well done my friend.
Many thanks dear Soren🙏🏻🕊️
Most welcome
There’s a quiet tension here, the kind that lives in the space between a gesture and the words that never come. The pen becomes a loaded little object, carrying all that hesitation and possibility without a single sentence being written.
A conduit of sorts, even. Thanks, Thomas🙏🏻🕊️
Good write A. Meanwhile, I'm discussing if it should be two dots or three dots. A matter of major importance. lol.
Three is usual for an ellipsis, as I think it's called. Fancy me knowing that long word! lol.
And who’s being cryptic ever at all 🤣 yup, very elliptical once we leave the full stop. Perhaps two stops could be called doopsies 🤪🕊️🙏🏻
the unsaid says it all
Indeed! Thanks, dear Norman 🙏🏻🕊️
always welcome
Yes , so much is being unsaid, and left to the Readers Imagination.
And no: the beginning and end were not in Braille. And anyone who says I ran my finger along the Screen is Lying.
Wouldn’t put that past them 🤣🙏🏻🕊️
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