Unspoken Lines: A Journey Through the Fragility of Friendship in Poetry

Unspoken Lines
(A Poem on the Fragility of Friendship)

You trace the edge—
sharp like the dawn before it wakes,
before birds break the shell of night with their song,
where silence melts and re-forms,
—liquid and unforgiving.

What is a word if not a vessel?
But here, the words are unborn,
pregnant pauses, swollen moments,
words not yet formed, not yet breathed.
You open your mouth
and nothing comes,
but your hands—
they speak with movements,
gestures like echoes chasing themselves in circles.
They move in spirals—round and round and round—
until they lose the edge,
and somewhere—far off, just beyond the horizon of knowing—
I can hear it.
A ripple, a splash, a drop falling from your eyes,
those hidden rivers.

Rivers don’t ask permission to flow.
They cut, they bend, they carve scars into the earth,
a language written in water.
I stand at your shore, toes half-submerged,
waiting to be swept.
Do you know the weight of your silence?
The gravity it pulls?

You hold space, you cradle it,
something invisible to all but you.
A crack in the world, a seam undone,
an opening where time slips through.
Others don’t see it—how could they?
Strangers never dare to step where you stand.
You see differently, you are differently,
walking the unseen line between what was and what might be,
an edge no one else notices.

You move forward, yet everything bends.
A dance not bound by feet, but by thought,
as if the air itself were shaping paths just for you.
Paths—soft, whispering, like the wind as it skirts the grass,
paths that curve and twist in ways only your breath understands.

What is friendship if not the bloom of time itself?
Not something you can plant—
no seeds, no soil, no beginning—
just the unfolding of something always there,
like an idea forming in the back of your mind,
or a flower rising from the dark, uninvited, unexpected.
It blooms where the sun refuses to go,
a wild thing, wild and alone,
as strange as the roots that dig into stone.
No one else sees it—not yet—
but there it is,
rising out of nothing,
a secret blossom hidden in the shadows.

What’s this bond, this tether, this thread?
You make it with fingers that barely touch,
a flame barely burning,
a flicker, too delicate to name,
too strong to break.
Is it real if no one speaks it?
Is it real if no one names it?
You don’t need names,
names are for things we understand,
but this—this is unspoken,
a pact drawn not in words but in silence.

Silence is your currency.
Your contract, sealed in the cracks of time,
inked in pauses, signed in the space between breaths.
Too fragile to last,
too powerful to let go.

Yet there it is—
A bloom in the void,
A flower that no one else can see.

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