Clarity

To you, I have nothing at all to say.
Contempt’s implied, of course, and mordant wit
that’s laced with schadenfreude, that toxic brew.
It’s not so bad that we need speak of hate --
the fact that we’ve not spoken should convey
so much; and yet it only should admit
our honest thoughts, perhaps tempered with rue
or sadness, at our stubborn non-debate.
I cannot think that you should be surprised.
You’ve left some things unsaid behind your smile;
the breach that we don’t speak of still leaves signs
that by my studied silence you’ve surmised --
still, likely, in the end, we’d reconcile.
It’s best left unexpressed, in fourteen lines.