She is soft.
Like watercolors
And the gentle plummet
Of leaves
From cracking branches
Her words are fog
Cooly rolling
Over bodies
Enveloping them
Intoxicating
She feels like
Moss and sunlight
Broken by fingers of trees

I am a blunt axe.
A straight arrow
I don't trickle
I am a rough sea
I am thick red paint
Whiskey without the buzz
My words
Have the harsh cut
Of being choked
Devoid of eloquence
I spill myself
Out with the slightest
Touch like a wine glass
Perilously perched
On the edge of a table

She is a fountain pen
And I am a stick
Pushing piles of dust