I was in love with my words,
where they were grace,
thin wrists, slender tongued,
I quarreled barrel chested
into the night,
troubled and hardly stood,
they moved high heeled,
and lip stick gorgeous,
and I, I was bowlegged
with dirt under my nails,
and brown shoes,
my words were sonnets,
and the sonnets were flowers,
and the metaphors became songs,
and when my words loved,
I would sigh back at them,
they were moonlit, and candle,
and I was torch on a stick,
I was soup spoon,
and they were Paris at night
young, and in love,
they were silken grace,
and when they moved,
I only could dream
clinging claw fisted,
and needy,
I was Quasimodo,
and my words
were Esmeralda.