Left Unsaid

The strings open with a question, a plea. There must be something I should have said. I ask but get no answer back. Silence is the cruelest form of rejection. I ask again, this time thru the oboe, then again with the strings. I bring all my sense of worth to the table. Still nothing. I change tactics, now joking, maneuvering, looking for a jester’s foothold. The sand is sinking under my feet. One last time, I implore, exhausted, demoralized. I’m running out of options. With the strings at my back, I turn away to leave. As I do, I sense behind me that she is bursting to say something, to call me back. Still, no word. She lets go. She leaves it left unsaid.