When Words Fail


In a language-driven world, there can scarcely be any greater relief than allowing your words to fail.

"Words, words, words." —William Shakespeare. 

The relentless emphasis on communication has revealed an even greater attraction to the ambiguous, the subtle, and the unsaid. 

One can be starved for speechlessness. 

Especially when confronted with what language falls furthest short of capturing. I could deign to describe, at length, every part of you I'm fascinated by.

Yet, the endeavor only approaches—never arrives.

A description of that which arrests me—a look, or glance—a gesture, a nod—would still fail to capture the captivation. 

Better, then, to simply allow those moments to slip on by—unremarked upon, but not unmarked. 

"Words fail me."

What a relief.

Refusing to wrestle those fleeting moments into clumsy verbiage chisels them even deeper into the mind's eye.

"Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?" said some dude, once.

Should I sew some part of you into the fabric of this page as a string of letters stitched into words? 

Would that give a reader a shallow comprehension of, say, your bottom lip, if that became my focus?

The look of it. The complexion of it. Its softness. Its intricate folds and near-imperceptible curl. 

Or would the futility of describing it only serve to frustrate? Beguiled for lack of enjoying it as it is—undefined, undescribed.

Delighting in it to the exclusion of all else. 

The only bottom lip in the world. 

What a pleasure, then, it would be—allowing words to fail me. 

"Kissing your lips is like holding a dove in your hand. Too hard and you kill it. Not hard enough and it flies away." —Tommy Lasorda (sort of).

Words, infuriatingly, both overstate and under-say.

Moving on from your bottom lip—how could I articulate the nuance of your ear? 

The crests. Sinuous ripples. 

What about it compels me, so? Do I even know? 

How could I ever hope to say, if its refinement is so slight that it evades even my understanding? 

When in doubt, shower with attention. The shape of your ear.

What better description could I offer that would contend with the sight of it?

"Abandon all words, ye who enter here." —The Gates of Hell (more or less).

Your bare neck. Extended.

The width of your collarbone. Noble.

The slope of your shoulder. Revealed. 

The point of your elbow. Sharp.

Your slender wrist. Ligaments stretched.

The knuckle of your middle finger. A little mountain to climb.

Do we need to offer a statement for these? 

Can't we, instead, allow the curve of your waist to have a word?

The jut of your hipbone would like a say. 

The skin of your thigh may wish to sigh.

The crook of your knee could cry.

A curled foot can whisper.

I crane to hear the ball of your ankle.

Let them speak in their native tongue. Don't we intuit, already, without translation? One might not be able to get a word in, edgewise. 

What a relief.

Merciful muteness. Give in, for a while. Enjoy that which cannot really be described. Or rather, that which is better left unsaid.

Words fall short. 

They fail, completely.

Let them.

There are more worthwhile things to do.

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