it’s like that drawer in the kitchen
where takeaway menus go to die
filled with the things we meant
to mention only didn’t

you were cutting onions
crying about something else entirely
I watched from the doorway holding
my tongue like a bus ticket thinking
we’ll save our words for a rainy day

the cat is cleaning her whiskers
watching us navigate flat-pack furniture
stacks of unspoken things and emotions
pressed between the pages of books
neither of us ever reads

we’re curators of the unsaid you said
our silence wrapped and dated
like leftovers at the back of the freezer