The Incomplete Conversation

“There is nobody I can speak my mind out to.” She said.

“I am listening.” He said.

She was amorphous. He was nervous.

His inquisitions fetched no answers from her well, for she was not in the right frame of mind, to paraphrase what she was going through.

She insisted on not having a single word for this conversation, for he would be hurt by the decibels of her soul, to ooze out the piercing loneliness.

None of them brought the chaff out. The incomplete conversation was an evidence to the confession, that they complete each other.

Nevertheless, they discovered their hesitation, to discover their hearts, dwelling in homes, not belonging to them. Every now and then, few benign gestures of fondness, unconditionally amused them. They walked along, but with a safe distance between them.

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