Words

I had some things to say,
not all of them words. You

heard it first, our mingling
ripped apart like velcro

before broadcasted
behind closed eyes.

I said, you are for me,
which was a touch garish.

The river split, vanished.
Lost your scent

in the bloom of record
temperatures. You said,

don't be shy, as a hand
fell short of my cheek.

There was fiction— then

you. I said, tell me to cut

it out, as if it were contagion,
a root to be excised.

I won't ask for the truth,
but when you ask

for favor after favor, only
later regrets not obliging

at least once. A fresh fallen
fruit in your hand sings

the ground's praises, dares
this hold for a finish,

perishes in the trappings
of what I wanted to say:

Babe, you've got me existing
as if it meant something.