Every time, you hold onto
the words for too long.
The words rot under
your tongue, where you left them;
you pretend you meant to,
savour,
a compost for more —
but it only ever makes it
hard to speak.
Logos is the thing
you might be able to put a finger on,
but if you leave it for too long it
will burn through.
It’s brittle and brutal in ways
you can’t imagine.
Reasons
have bloomed for two years
like a headache, swelling water,
like an argument
that only leads one way.
Write it out, don’t
try to fit it or fight it.
The more perfect state of us
would be what exactly?
I’ve developed a bad habit
of leaning towards you
and sometimes I think you
encourage it.
Fuck me up, why don’t you.
You’ve seen it happen
the opposite way around. Every time
you hold onto my wrists
I feel
the cracks
built into my bones,
the things I haven’t explained
to you
in so many words.
It takes
a while to take
but once it
does