All the things I am not saying are sitting there, on the sofa, an elephant knitting from an endless ball of yarn.
All the things I am not saying are molding in a plastic container, because I refused to eat them, or to throw them out, and I would not wash it out, or even to pick it up and put it away in the cold where everything belongs.
All the things I am not saying have become light brown M&Ms– outcast from the package years ago, forgotten and obsolete, replaced with the more flashy shade of sky blue.
All the things I am not saying form a shadow on my sunny disposition and leave ruts around my shallow, happy replies.
All the things I am not saying have composted and turned to rich, deep black dirt, and they lie awake, changing inside of me, fertile but still.
All the things I am not saying are hot and cold simultaneously when you grab them, like that first contact with metal, before your sensory perceptors decide which way to direct the feeling.
All of the things I am not saying are holding me down, in passive silence– a June bug noiseless in a cat’s mouth.