specie

I know the word.

I have used it before —

worn it out, even,

in rooms that didn’t deserve it,

handed it over too easily,

watched it land like nothing,

like a coin on a bar.

I know what it costs

to mean it

and have it mean nothing on the other end.

so I hold it.

not because I doubt it —

the way you doubt a rope before you trust your weight to it —

but the way you hold the last good match in a storm.

you know it’s there.

I know you know.

and on some ordinary morning,

coffee cooling on your desk

work taking over the day too quickly,

you’ll look up from whatever you’re reading

and there will be a thing passing between us —

not a word.

something older than a word,

something the word was built to approximate

and never quite could —

and we will both know what was just said.

the word will be in the room.

it just won’t have made a sound.