Cynthia Ruth Lewis

How much is missed within the breath of whispers? The silence
that precedes confession, obsession, an endearment lost in translation
somewhere between the movement of my lips and the delicate shell
of your ear

Never able to hear clearly; the vowels turning themselves inside-out,
tumbling through consonants, parts of speech clouded, misunderstood,
facial animation of strangers never matching tone of voice, communication

I try, carefully, sounding words into your ear, the hum and hiss of
tongue and whisper, syllables and sibilance curving through canals,
scrambled sounds the membranes cannot grasp, sense cannot adhere

With timid patience, my eyes, my touch finds a place where words
cannot reach, someplace you don’t need sounds to know meaning;
the push of breath and heart beating, the last measured tones, gentle
rippling of overturned stones beginning to break surface, to hone
realization, a quiet revelation, a spark, a flash of bright light in your
eyes to guide us further down that road

Tonight, there is a sun rising,
somewhere near the center of you

Cynthia Ruth Lewis has been writing poetry on and off for the past 20 years, whenever the words find her, grab hold and refuse to let go. Her work has appeared in Nerve Cowboy, The Griffin, Remark and others.