sink beneath my typeface.
the words were never my own,
but something you ****** into me
the night you took me home.
maybe i found some meaning
hidden underneath
mountains of blue sweaters
in your closet floor…
but wait,
the sentence escaped.
you drew my hand to your lips
and whispered something within,
something without,
something i could not pronounce.
i can only speak on paper,
but it is your fingertips that move.