If words, like water, had their own catchment area, where would the unspoken ones drain into? Would they be funneled into a bigger body of water, perhaps the sea?  Where I can always throw a bait to catch the words I’ve never told you; to use and reuse them, or to haul out the story of the lost city of Atlantis?

Or do these words— the unspoken ones— reach a point where everything else is lost underground; through an influent stream, maybe? Where all my invoiced emotions go down a-streaming, deeper than the earthly grounds? Where all my words shall glow inside a cavern of  harrowing darkness? So finally I could entrap them inside the palms of my hands and carefully map them out to your own version of the constellations of the sky?

I never really knew the answer then. That was the time you told me not to delve deeper anymore into the waters of the unknown. It was you who told me that there is no use for the catchment and entrapment of unspoken words; no use in filling the silence with barren phrases.

Dear one, that was the time I first believed in the power of silence. Silence which is louder than us, admittedly more fathomable than us.