Resignation

It hovered upon his lips, a sentiment  

that somehow could not take shape: 

like undecided cloud formation,

loose sensations sifting in the wind.

Would it mean thunder claps 

or a light precipitous feathering?

None could really tell.

So his mood was, as they say,

changeable as the weather.

His thoughts stammered in their flow,
so no sound made doubtful debut;
Consonants, half-formed butting
against his wondering tisking teeth,
against faded vowels from the
bowel of aching discombobulation.
He could barely move in this
quickening, quiet frenzy.

She watched him suffer a while.
Then merely rose to tiptoes
to press her lips against his, 
to stop once and for all his halting,
hesitant search for a gush 
of verbal freedom; foreclosing 
further doubt and concluding
for them both this draining, drawn out 
impasse.They would, regrettably, be
resigned to the fateful fact:
that there simply are no words 
of reason that he could utter.