There is no word to call the bit
That we don’t know of one another:
The mind, the thoughts, the life unseen,
Unheard, the feelings.
Everything we guess about
and we don’t know off; pain.
The secret distance from the you to me
Seems shorter now the lights are dimmed,
And almost as in tune we breathe and talk and see.
The bit unknown, the private will, the smile
Behind the hand on which you rest your head,
There is no word to call it by its name and yet
It is what makes you you, me me.
No one the same.