It continues,
after all this time

I catch myself
deciphering words written in native tongue
and misunderstood
or misheard
until it all comes clear,
and the music box hits the wall
shattering silently under screams of negation.

They can't write for us.

Only we can,
elliptical love letters in open form,
meaning smothered in
metaphor and simile.

Because to blurt it out '
I miss you, I was wrong '
would be unseemly,
too much like

Back then.
We hid nothing from each other.

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