Silence is eerie when he sits next you and attempts to have a conversation. His head is tilted back, resting lightly on the arm of a couch the two of you are sharing. He’s extended his legs so they rest gently in your lap, like a lover’s do on a cold winter’s night. There’s beauty in the way he doesn’t ask you how your days was or what you have planned for tomorrow. How he shouts nothingness that makes more sense than our crosslegged natured world. Rather, his eyes leisurely blink, balancing at a close for what seem like moments longer than most would allow. And as his feet begin to warm in your lap, you fail to remember why Silence ever scared you. Why the way he looms beneath the notes of expression cause tension. His face is in fact soft beneath such defined features. Almond eyes do not watch intent on discovering what we demand remains unspoken. Quite the opposite. He waits, patiently, for the space to be filled with language. It is not his to imbue quizzical thoughts and unanswered questions. Silence provides the silence. We provide the couch.