The Unsaid

Sometimes I imagine: within you, there live doors.
Not an image, not a sensation – doors.
Old, shaky, with a handle that cannot be moved,
Until you yourself wish to let someone in.

I stand before them every evening – without a knock.
Only with the hope that one day
You will not remain silent, but will read me –
Not with your eyes, not with your mind, but with your own wounds.

For I am no hero.
I am a tired voice in an empty theater,
Where the curtain has not been raised for years.
But as soon as you sit in the front row –
I will play again.
I will live again.
Even if the whole world is but the stage of your eyelids.

I am not a memory. I am a thirst.
I am not a rhyme. I am your gaze between the lines.
And if there is anything in this world that I fear to lose –
It is not freedom and not fame,
But the moment you let me into your pain,
Which you show to no one else.