This muteness

that lipreads you
on the dumb cuneiform
of memory
That invisible jet
somewhere
passing
at the speed of sound,
its past tense
gone
before
its gone again.
I wish there were
a saviour
to forsake me
for this feeble
prayer.
But even God
is known for
his love
of words
that must not
be said.
I wish I were deaf.
Not hear the silence
that says,
Paul, forget me.
And
I
wish
I
could forget
my name,
who
I was.