The Box Of Ungestured Gestures Poem by Ann U. Writter

I know him,
He knows me,
I see him.
He sees me,
We approach each other,
I glance at his hand, it's loaded and ready to fire,
As I face him I see his hand twitches, thinking he should shake, but then withdrawing,
My hand keeps cool, only after the semi-enthusiastic "hi" -and asking how he is- do I realize that I should've shook hands,
And yet again another gesture goes ungestured,
It is added to the box in my heart and I move on.

But I never really do.

My memory pulls on me,
It tugs,
I can't hold it,
I ungestured too many gestures,
One day, it overloads and the box pops open,
A flood of emotions escape in the form of great joy of compensation or horrific rage for missed opportunities,
Latter or former still undecided.

If latter, then I hope it is inside the core of the earth or at a distant planet in space.
If former, then location is irrelevant, but company is crucial,
If former, then I hope it is with the dearest people to my heart.

For now, the box's cover is only accidently slipped open every once in a while and quickly re-shut,
Momentary dashes of emotion leak through and then it sinks under the tides of everyday matters,
Then The Box of Ungestured Gestures is summoned again when a gesture goes ungestured,
And I keep hoping it is the former.