a good tree

That voice, and all the words unspoken between his teeth.
It's something deeper, something that shouldn't be named.

We don't. We speak of it in lilts and euphemisms. We talk around it, each knowing, each not naming it.

Well I bloody want to name it. But each moment I want to pen it, or speak it, or even think it my blood runs cold.

I can name this at least. We are growing downwards and deeper. With little fruit, nothing but the stump left above, the wreckage of something beautiful, to show for the years and the words unspoken. But downwards we grow and the tree that was there won't come back.

But I swear I saw it marked by a red flower. I swear it was a good tree.