conversation.
there's a rhythm to it,
a dance of words.
spin me into a twirl,
and i'll taste fresh tangerine,
bursts of bright citrus and dark leaves
with emerald gleam
as you speak of faded summer mornings,
fruit hanging low on trees,
ripe and bending the smooth branches
you have carved delicate prose into
with the curved knife
that came with your heart,
made to replace a rib.
spin me into a twirl,
but don't throw me into a leap—
i crumple on impact,
the stage cold, unforgiving.
i'm not made for the ballet.
i'm swept up in this dance of words,
pulled into its whitewater current.
drowning is blissful, relieving,
and i sink to the bottom,
the bones of the dance
clutched in my fists.
i can't swim disoriented,
the sun-warped surface
out of sight.
conversation is an ocean,
as unpredictable
as the next wave.
but you fall with grace
into its fluidity,
and from your mouth flows
an effortless stream of insignificance,
honey sliding from the tongue
to fill the hollows of silence
some can't bear.
but i welcome it, darling,
drinking in the stillness
that sparkles down the throat
like champagne.
silence allows you to soak in
another's presence,
notice how their thoughts wander
like wispy clouds
traveling great expanses of deep violet sky
that'll soon turn dark and bloodred.
catch their ideas when they bubble up to the surface,
open up the blanketing quiet for a minute,
breathe in their voice,
store it away in your lungs
before exhaling a cherry blossom breath,
letting the petals fall gently to the ground,
because a voice isn't meant to fill,
but to warp and curve
around what's already there.
to softly press against a cheek
like a kiss
as light as a dove's feather.
was it there? that wavering touch of white flame?
to travel down to the toes
after taking a tour
through the heart,
after wanting to see where
the veins led,
where the passions cultivated.
this quiet is like a wordless song
that melts into the bloodstream,
turning it to a melodic gold.
silence is what i bury myself in,
because when i emerge,
words hold more worth
than sweet filling.
love,
mari
YOU ARE READING
for the tarnished hearts
Poetrypoetry for the hearts tarnished by love or the sudden death of it. for the hearts that find a soft lullaby in the pages when raw hope is not enough to put the worries to sleep. for the hearts that bleed ink to paint the chalky roses of life red with...
