Silent Conversations

It doesn’t feel easy to start an actual conversation with you.
Like the breeze does with the leaves
Or the chirping birds flitting freely
In easy flight, unfettered
Leaving is almost as abrupt, as arriving.
When did the leaves murmur dissent?
At the shifting clouds
That changed the light’s refraction.
Or the mud, brittle with drought
Tempered-thirsty against the tardy rain.
Didn’t it just soften its stance,
With the fragrance of its dampness
As it ushered in the ghosting droplets
In errant, ephemeral, episodic showers.
Late, longed for, laconic,
Logical even, like newton’s third law of motion.
So why do I find it hard to converse with you?
Is it because of your sudden silences, or my solitude?
That I’m unable to overcome and still
Long for your words, as my ears have had enough.
Craving a touch, as I find this world too much.
Find fault with myself, as I change my chameleon-ish colours.
Sometimes when you are not served love on a silver spoon, you learn to lick it off knives.