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.

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.