We talk

We talk;
the words coming shyly at first,
selected, edited, opted for;
and then in a tumble, a song, a waterfall
gushing up as from a spring:
Words on top of words on top of words.
Discoveries almost crammed too close together,
breathless from all there is to say.

We talk,
each syllable addictive
the heart expanding, wild tangles over a topography of words.
Your laugh is music, a drug, and I am foolish,
my heart singing answers to words you haven’t asked.
I will say, want to say, more to you.
Days aren’t long enough; hours dissolve.

But when night closes calm behind my eyelids
I imagine you here, in the quiet of the room
your body warm beside me
your heartbeat strong beneath my fingertips,
we lay quiet and listen to
rainfall outside the window.

I curve my limbs around your shape
and dream that we don’t talk.

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11 thoughts on “We talk

  1. Gorgeous, quiet shy intro, words tumble, resolves into a soft and delicate touch, the emotion inhabits the lagnuage which inhabits the structure and flow of the poem, perfect. And you are happy and in love which is even more perfect, yayaya,

  2. Ha, well, you know this could just be an abstract poem, an idea or a memory of love. It doesn’t necessarily indicate I’ve gone all dopey and shit over some strapping fella with broad-shoulders and a golden tongue.

    Not.. y’know… necessarily.

    Writer’s are notoriously misleading, yup. For instance, remember that Jules Verne guy?

    You won’t hardly even believe it, but he wrote 20,000 leagues under the sea without ever going underwater in a submarine… what an awesome liar! eh?

    A decent writer is a genius hack, and all that. At least most of the time.

  3. wow.. that was really really nice… it dragged me in and wrapped itself around me… i have been one with this feeling… one with this desire to connect… how lovely….

  4. Like the LazyBuddist up above, I’ve been in a relationship for many years (20 this last December), and these heady, giddy days of words are long in my past. Our conversations are more meandering now, as we know each others stories as well as we know our own. But I do remember, fondly, blushingly, those early days, and what it is to ‘fall’. Sigh.

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