I find that words don’t seem to fit
In the gaps between our fingers and
Underneath my wasted spaces like
The crinkles around my eyes and mouth –
And here we go again with mouths.
Yours, my dear, makes lovely music
That tickles my ears and turns my head
And floors me so for once I can’t
Trip over myself as you sweep past
And sweep me off my fragile feet.
Your voice I would gladly listen to
For hours and hours without end;
My memory would never serve me right,
So I’m forced to wait until tomorrow
When it plays across my brain again.
And what are mouths if not for joining
In too-precious seconds of darkness,
Soft around the edges, the vignette
Of an abstract I don’t quite understand.
So let me feel just one more brushstroke
Of fingertips around my jaw, under my chin,
Laced through my hair and arcing down
My arms, my back, my flustered cheek,
And leave my skin humming a song
With music notes etched in deep.
These scribbles don’t seem right to me:
Struggled excuses to pin you down
And justify the pandemonium
That leaves me at a loss for words.
So I’ll have to settle for just three.
