I wont hold you to it--
You can forget if it suits your taste
I prefer a dry throat, a treat I accidentally provide
The empty swallow that gets stuck half way down
The way I sound, raspy as if years of lessons have eroded sharpness
Like river rocks, static-- stoic
and smooth
Choosing words as fingers pick mulberries,
Stained and fragile
Knowing the best-- slight red and tart to taste
The way they fill my mouth and leave bitter--
Rotten teeth--
Dry, and reminding
shh--
I am here
No comments:
Post a Comment