There’s a part of me
that wishes you’d stop—
not because I don’t hear you,
but because I can’t figure out
what you’re really saying.
Your voice fills the air,
but it leaves nothing behind—
just the echo of something
I can’t touch.

You speak in riddles,
with eyes that hide the answers,
your words bending and twisting
like a thread that slips through my fingers.
Every sentence feels like a doorway,
but I’m never sure
if it leads anywhere real.

I can’t decide if you’re speaking to me
or to something else,
something just beyond the surface,
and every time I try to understand,
the answer slips away.

I wish you’d stop,
not for peace,
but for clarity—
for a moment where the fog clears
and I can finally hear
what’s hidden in your silence.
Maybe then,
I’d understand.