When you look at me,
My painful thinking stops and turns into tears.
Your unsaid words are still waiting,
Uttered to be expressed,
By cramming into palate.
I know them all,
As you know your fingers,
Which, apparently, touches me tenderly,
While they send me the thrill of separation.



Marieta Maglas

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/state-of-wakefulness/