Worrisome

Sometimes you worry me, and then I fear
That in your silence there's expressive speech
If only I, too deaf, could strain and hear.
Then I try not to let those worries leech
Into my bloodstream, and infect the rest
For while they stay cooped up within my mind
I can still choose to do that which seems best:
Dismiss them, and whatever else I find
Associated with them. But some days
It is so hard to not read something in
Each of your pauses, and my will decays
And then I fall into a kind of sin
For which I, doubtless, as you absolution
And with it all those worries' diminution.