If the words do not come
it can be very hard
to find my own feet, to recognize
my own reflection.
I do not think you
understand this struggle, the terror of this fog,
even when I am trying to speak
about it
because it is not something
which can be spoken
with words.
There are tremors a heart can only beat.
There are words a soul
can only be made of
and not release.
How wrenching it is
to stand before you
with this bouquet in my hands
you will never see.
.
.
Allison Marie Conway 