Don’t sing your next song.
Or sigh, or sound. Our affair has been
so divine so far and so good,
and I would rather remain suspended
knowing only that the unknown will stay so.
Suspended with great expectations. Willfully
bound to await the expiration of this fleeting gasp
with your mouth always at my ear.
Could my love grow? The borders I cross
To stay in tow already leave me writhing
and crazed, but if mystical things harvest resilience,
you feed me.
I hear your song and I hear you sing about how
it works, and as you sing it, you make it so.
Lay me down among the words and inscribe truth
with every roll of your tongue.