Relative to size, the tongue is the strongest muscle
in the human body.
I guess that’s why you tell such good stories.
You are so eloquent with your words
you draw embarrassment from Scriptures
each time you speak.
Meanwhile, I choke on the tip of my
tongue trying to describe the chewed up
bits of the back of my mind.
I remember dusk-drizzled moments
earlier in our relationship, lying next to you
My ears, so wide open
you pulled them over your head like sleeves of a
sweater and twisted your tongue around the
slit syllables of my dreams.
Did you know what you were doing?
As time tip-toed closer to our differences,
we began competing for independence.
I hid beneath silence
while you used me in your verses
as if fighting with me served a greater purpose
than succeeding together.
You leaned your insecurities against me like a ladder
on a concrete wall
climbing up and away from me.
Each time we got close enough to believe
we needed each other you’d say I’m too clingy
like static, you’d cling to your pride.
You’re exceptionally kind to philosophy and physics.
(Save for the blown fuse of a heart you carry)
I have been told enough times to lose count
that I have a really big heart.
However, a heart too big
can lead to heart failure.
When I said I love you,
I didn’t mean eventually.
I meant right then and there.
With the foul smell of your sweet talk, and with
your skin stained from the dark and bumpy birthmark
trailing down your right shoulder to your elbow.
I meant with the taste of regret on your lips from
promises you were too afraid to keep,
and with the awkward feeling of your uncertain
ability to love me back the way you wanted to.
I meant it when I said I love you.
It’s as impossible to reverse the days of the week
as it is to keep your eyes open
when you sneeze.
Instead I found the weakness of the
dazed and confused me
and I’m not able to unlove you.