TO WRITE ALL THE WORDS THAT STILL CAN’T SPEAK HER MIND
My mind’s been down roads it shouldn’t be as of late. Following paths to a time unspent.
Building memories on words not spoken and generally laying mayhem in place of peace.
I may explode.
A fine mess.
Glossy pieces of sunny yellow hope and joy laid waste amidst shards of razored pink pulp wet with the breadth of me.
Can I get a little reciprocation?
Giving me opaque when I need transparent.
Been at it so long, tempered and even, wanting to break out, grasp on, tune in, turn up to the fullness of another.
Show me everything.
Then take my all.
Out of the blue. And into the red. Can I turn it darker, a crimson before it fades to black once more leaving me my peace until another time when I can unfold it.
Yes, tuck it all back in for another time.
It’s a blossom out too soon.
A racket in my head now, not heard in so long. A low hum built to a clanging that has me caught up, gripped. Please just murmur. Soothe my hard-pressed thoughts.
It’s different than I knew. I looked and looked. Seeing too late is seeing too soon.
Sweet and dirty. Just what I need.