enough to know

I know all too well
so you really needn’t say,
and yet your silence
lies so heavily across
my overly anxious heart.

No, it is not so much
the bitter cold of night,
nor the amorous light
of the wanton spring moon
that compels me to speak,

which I do all too often,
I admit unreservedly,
fleeing decorum and mores
like a harlot found grinning
in the light of an angry torch.

It is the very stillness itself
of this heart so long restrained,
so desperately desiring
to speak and be heard
and be, God forbid, loved.

Fool that I am, and more,
adoring so forcefully,
when a better man would stash
his tongue, and lash his heart
and be content to merely know.