A full moon peeks through the sliding door
on this calm clear autumn night
and reflects off of the hardwood floor
showing a too familiar site.

"The Big Bang Theory" on T.V.
an old episode being rerun
and we watch it only haltingly
on another evening well begun.

For we're both occupied with other things,
in a King novel you're nearly lost
within the story that it brings
while I sit with pen and think of Frost.

You turn a page, I write a line.
Canned laughter spills from the flat screen.
We're quiet as though we're resigned
to being unheard although seen.

We sit without the need of words
for few of them are left unsaid
and unlike raucous roosting birds
we're almost quiet as the dead.

Does Luna think we've grown apart
although we're here in the same room
each practicing a different art
in a pool of light within night's gloom?

The silence is earned by many years;
for within this silence we are bound
and with a twitch or rapid glance
communicate without a sound
within this private world we've found.