Long Stares

There were only silences,

latent ones,

like those in Cohen’s songs

Of which words make

poetry of their own.

I stared into space

conscious of the silences,

somehow not complaining.

Then he wrote.

Empty spaces filled with words.

Lonely words turned

to conversations.

And I stared into them.

Words written to me, for me,

had a rhythm of their own

But that wasn’t enough.

So I stared further, longer

for it to turn into music

for he, like me,  was enslaved

by it, the weight of words

turning too heavy, without.

And like any other conversation,

this too, ends.

Back to silences.

You don’t listen to Cohen’s

music particularly, do you?

He has the words,

all I have are long stares.