We never spoke of love.
We spoke of cosmic miseries;
we spoke of falling statues;
we spoke of unsolved mysteries,
of the prevailing cultural attitudes.
We spoke of miscommunication
and Comedy and Tragedy as brothers;
we spoke of being lost and broken,
yet healed at the hearths of others.
We spoke of Winter's silent war
and how the Sun scared us both;
we spoke of wanderlust and bars
and how our lives were the funniest jokes.
We spoke of possibility,
in coded symbols and allegories,
of all the universes we wish we could be,
of all the things we'd do with wings.
We never spoke of love,
and yet,
somehow,
it's all we ever
talked about.
Funny how we always had two conversations at once.