Paper People

Silence has a music of its own,
a melody,
as we all sit there around the table.
All the words
and thoughts
and feelings
rise up out of our bodies,
and weave together,
dancing in the air,
all shouting what they have to say,
in silence.
They holler and interact with one another,
though we are not conscious of it.
They give what they have to give to the world
without a second glance,
though no one utters a sound.

Someone opens their mouth
to speak,
and we are brought back to reality.
Our words abandon their dance,
fleeing back to the body
from whence they came.
They cannot be caught like this.
They hide now,
suddenly afraid,
maybe peeking out with a timid glance,
like a child afraid to come out
from behind its mother's skirt.
And the only things
that come from our lips,
are lies, or half-truths,
or something that is not
the most important thing,
not what we are actually thinking.

The words which filled the room,
pressing against the ceiling,
the dense congregations
have disappeared,
back to their dark and sheltering caves.
The air between us
has lost its dimensions,
its volume,
and its music,
and instead lies flat,
as if we are made of paper,
instead of flesh,
and blood,
and dreams.