The words we employ

the words we turn to use

promise only a future

fraught with lies

roped in disappointments

can we know by touch alone?

by the feelings that leak out sideways

this jam crusted

with resentment and regret

mortar made of songs

we never sing out loud

but rather hum nervously

with our knees and our fingers?

contemplate this rising

like the damp heat of exhalations

these illuminated promises we weave

pulling words out of our hair in sleep

our fingers wander

dreaming a keyboard

filled with other peoples’ stories

other peoples’ laughter

like street light

glancing off your windshield

like unclaimed tears

I fill you to overflowing

to the point at which

capacity gives out like a memory

reworked and patched

mended with quick stitches

and sewn-in forgetfulness

I could say I don’t remember

I could blame Jack Spicer’s birds, sure

but there’s a really simple way of distilling moments

let them drop rhythmically like forgotten intimacies

drop down their wind-saddened words

to stand awkwardly together

just across from us

like old buildings

pulled halfway down