Auma

In the quiet of the night, Auma sits,

Listening to words her husband permits.

"I can give you an argument," he declares,

Yet understanding, he seemingly spares.

Her name, a melody, whispers in the air,

Auma ponders, burdened by a subtle despair.

His words, a puzzle she tries to unfold,

In the silence, a story waiting to be told.

"I can give you an argument," echoes again,

A bridge of logic, a foundation of strain.

But understanding, a fragile, elusive art,

A puzzle missing a crucial part.

Auma gazes into the depth of his eyes,

Seeking the truth, where honesty lies.

In the dance of words, a delicate chance,

To fathom the depths of this verbal romance.

Yet, in his statement, a paradox blooms,

A rift in comprehension, like distant rooms.

Auma, a captive of linguistic command,

Yearns for more than arguments in the sand.

Her heart, a canvas for emotions untold,

Auma, a tale of a love manifold.

For in the silence between words that cling,

Understanding blooms, a perennial spring.