Unspoken Poetry (solipsism)

I think of all the words that could’ve existed.
And I mourn.
Of the hidden dialogue.
What if my thoughts were tangible?
What would happen every time I spoke?
Would they turn to brick?
Would they amount to anything?
I mourn of a future I built.
I mourn of a future that deteriorated into ashes.
I think of the one-sided conversations.
I think of that one-sided dream.
I think of facades.
I think of how beautiful they’d look if they were real.
So I mourn of a possible reality that could’ve existed if that dream was reciprocated.
I weep as my words slowly succumb to the pressure of unveiling the truth
But, the silence ensues.
Nothing.
There are no words left to say.