When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong.
I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me slowly
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.
Feb 14, 2010
Feb 14, 2010 at 7:17 PM UTC
When your mouth moves I remember
what it felt like as I rushed to flip a page
and sliced my hand on the edge of words.
Every syllable you murmur in my ear stings
salt-lick strong.
I am four again. I will not breathe
until you untangle me slowly
from you, from your own undoings
that have become the paper wrappings
around the bird-cage of my heart.
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