willowthewisp

the few

I reread your poems this morning

after my class on the language I’m

learning—the one that’s spreading

in my chest because of you.

I still have 

 

few words, but the few I do have are 

so big and beautiful that I keep nearly

forgetting to exhale as they descend

upon me, clinging and gnawing on my

flesh until I ask them to hold me tight

and hum me to sleep. They do.

They wait for me to wake up.

I wait too.

 

I have few words, and where

they’re taking me, I’m no longer sure.

I reread your poems this morning.

I understood more than last time

and because of that, I think 

I know less.