704. unspoken

To hold him in his state, a temporary fullness of fruitful ripeness, warm as evening sun, was to hold something like a dream. Not that the holding was not real or imaginary or fanciful as much as what was held conferred some edge of the tongue significance, the kind that is noticed across the table by a smile, or a look in the eye but is never discussed over bread, maybe wine, but never bread; and then, even then, no matter the head nodding and stories bartered, there remains an uneasiness, as if what one held in heart, mind and memory was air so rarified that to think another, another so close could know, seemed not possible. Or so one wanted to believe, or protect, the rarity, for if it was not rare, but instead common, so common that another would know, could know in just a few words, well, then as dew taken by a rising sun, so too this sumptuous thumping, of a chest expanding and perception changed such that no trifle could trifle. And so some things remained unspoken.