you will find a moment when your words must become an open hand, flickering open to light another's darkened road. you wish to show them your heart, yet how will you do that if all you have behind your tongue are broken pieces of phrases oft repeated? 'i'm here if you need me.' 'i'll be there for you.' 'i have sympathy for you.' others have spoken these very words many times over. they are cursed with the knowledge that no matter how much love sticks the syllables together, the words will never be whole.

time fell through bone fingers
as ashes do
when spilled

alone with the seconds tapped out by my feet, ticked out by the clock. i wonder if the hands get bored of circles? of turning gears? of being read? do they follow the expectations on them to give the correct time? do they crack under pressure, ticking a few seconds late or a few seconds early? are their poems about their life like poems about mine?

as she wept
bones became
songs.

i
don't
know how
i'm being
screamed at by silence.
i don't know what these rooms are for-
filled with ghosts and curtains that will never stop haunting.
i watch these stacked rooms from afar as we drive home. a wraith whispers light into their ears.

wings wink behind leaves
clouds are too high to see me
should I try waving to them?

the most powerful emotions are only a few syllables long