It’s the stillness that I have practiced all my life,
Emanating expressionless emotions,
Silent when it’s not my turn to profess,
Silent when it is.
In our fictitious past,
You had ruffled it with pebbles,
In an attempt to wrinkle the placid lake,
Into patterns you yearned for.
Pebbles I could easily follow the wake of,
And resume nonchalance.
In my smug, detached, still, innocent, perfect, present tarn,
What could I do,
When a soft breeze hushes a quiet ripple,
Sends a wave of life and gloom?
Until the next reminiscent bout,
I am not sure whether it is longing or dread.
I never was.