|
jane
|
to begin.
the concept is a cloud
above my head --
too opaque to really catch
anything out of it.
and so i become a sponge
for your words,
like a child, face sticky
with sugar residue.
eyes closed, smiling
from taste brilliance.
such a subjective experience.
the kind that makes me think
all words are dead as latin
(though my heart tells me
language will always be alive,
even after mouths cease;
syllables have souls
unto themselves).
not dead, but difficult.
an arduous task of explanation
of feeling,
of emotion,
etcetera. i sicken myself
with effort.
so i turn to your words
instead. i wrap them around me,
fulfilling my skin-hunger
for the month, remembering a time
when they were meant
only for me. a time my skin
invoked words out of you,
the way the cold excites
skin into bumps,
hair sticking straight up,
paying attention.
you collected me once,
turned tangible solid things
into steam, into those particles
beyond human sight --
knowing they are there
without seeing.
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