anchoring the unspoken to words
towards him - matching a rhythm,
my voice cadence shapes its
dance round the scent of his skin.
i am too delicate before time
and too protective of that which undoes me
slowly. he and I were all
in the timing.
i remember this man with large hands
and long Listening: he’d just let me
spill. he’d just let me search my own reflection,
trace the lines, follow them back to
deeper origins than a silhouette
might suggest.
conversations on the backs of napkins,
water rings slipped off the bottoms of cold glasses.
leftover condensation in our conversations;
we exchanged those. i still have mine and
elbows on the table … still there
in rapt attention. sometimes minding
your manners is very rude. sometimes rescuers
create their own victims. sometimes love is a wish
made and dropped down the well where we search
for ourselves, sharing loveless questions: do you -
will you - don’t you … answer - cloaked in
what one asks themselves with a good, silent Soul as witness.
napkins and glass rings and silence and
big hands directing wide arms
in closure behind by back while my heart
poured open. i was the bottle with
the corked-in message and the one who threw it long.
i was the island, i was the ocean - all this, and all
this we had in common.
he knew my story,
even the leak that
let the words turn
to clouds in
the water rising
like a storm around
our anchor.
