Day 94 - Speak, speak slow

Isn't it mundane the way we speak to each other sometimes?

As our interior words stay seated, we let out words without meaning. We hope you get it...even though what I say has nothing to do with how I feel. Perhaps you feel some moving, shifting one way to say the scars are deeper than you think. When glazed eyes fix on the floor do you hear I don't understand why it feels so empty...

We dance around our words, our bodies raw like open wounds. We do normal things--fetch the paper, pour the coffee, gather notes. All the while, our pasts our loves our fears ricochet against each other on the inside. Even those closest to us have only inklings of who we are. We try to give it to them, but we can't quite get there, can we?

We'll live out a thousand moments before we see each other clearly. And even then, It's so brief, like a lost raindrop that licks the skin. It's a pinprick. It's a private epiphany.

And you. In the dark rooms before sleep, the yellow lights burning. I see your shadow against the wall, the curve of your shoulders. Still sleeping, you don't remember that you begged I love you into the nape of my neck. As if you were losing me. What poem were you dreaming? I find comfort in your need. Shape myself into the shape of your body.