Better left unsaid?

My stomach is jumping across hot coals
as I long to tell you why I’m melting.

Constricted in one instant, ribs weighed down.
The next I am on the brink of words tumbling forth and all my limbs dissolving into a blissful messy pool of numbness while basking in that shared and secret and impossible joy
but momentarily the reins pull back,
the thought of your face, not understanding,
and with the meaning having misfired,
mistaking as laughable that which means
so
much
to me
abruptly jerks back the bit in my mouth.
And so I hover, agonised and mute,
friction wearing me down, rubbing me out,
unable to settle in happiness
and not bearing to settle for despair.
Balanced on the knife edge in the middle,
each cut deepening the sting of torture
knowing I can only, ever, tell you.

------------------

Besides, the words are weak, or else too strong;
your comments flow in the wrong direction,
leaving me with nothing to cling on to
as they pass, nothing for my eager words
to tag along behind gratefully, and
sink their infant fists in the comfort of
bolder, more intimate conversation.
Silent scramblings of premature phrases
are mistaken for a pause, awkwardness.
And suddenly you turn again, away,
to duller topics, and surer footholds.
The unformed words cry out, their gestation
suddenly coming to an abrupt end.
Torn from the belly of my mind, unborn,
unsaid.