is to be fluent in the art of insulting

there are only so many words
to be hand-picked from the ground,
spun around like ***** laundry
in melted glass shapes designed to mean
something to someone

we can write about
the way the tired clown collapses on his bed
after a night spent sweltering in forced laughter,
the way the sunflowers your grandmother planted years ago
continue to bloom outstretched to the sky
countless years after the last time you heard her voice

we can write about
the flutter of first love,
red cheeks and somersaulting stomachs,
the way it burns like a chemical spill on newborn skin
the moment it is stolen away from us

we can write
we can write
we can write

yet we will never fully capture
how the clown sobs tears of loneliness
after a lifetime of painting smiles on painted faces
or the way it still aches to stare out the window in the summer
because the cheerful faces of the flowers remind you of hers

we will never fully understand
how blissful it is to experience the beginnings of love,
how the entire universe ceases to exist anywhere
but in the unfamiliar palms of the one you have fallen hard for;
we will never fully understand
how the cries of the earth can also exist
in the deafening silence
after the one who poured his soul out for you to cradle
decides he wants it back for himself

we will never understand
we will never understand
we will never understand

but perhaps,
when we choose the words,
we choose to try.