And your lips fall on vowels with such delicacy
As I try not to drown in this perilous sea,
With eyelids which rub raw and a heart like a drum
I'm not the one in your head; on the tip of your tongue,
So, try as I might, there's nothing to be said
There's no use in this fight: leave this poem for dead,
Skin still speckled with love-coloured bruises, I know
Though I shift in my seat, I would much rather go,
Loutish lover, with these words, I bid you adieu
This is the last sonnet I shall write for you.
Apr 9, 2014
Apr 9, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
Writing is safer, I feel
Because letters looped together can flow fluently
Through pens, not speech
They can stand their ground when my legs give way
And words written down don’t get stuck in my hand
Like they do in my throat
They can’t stutter, can’t stumble
Like my tongue when I try to steady my breath
And no one can tell if I’m laughing
or crying
through written words alone.
Feb 3, 2014
Feb 3, 2014 at 7:12 PM UTC