I’ve worn out your name,
syllables a ragged kind of rugged frayed
from sitting so long at the back of my tongue.
It’s been toyed with and played with and thrown around
almost as many times as your heart.
It’s never sore – it’s
still amazing how I can buy
your attention with two simple chords.
I want to wash it, fold it, smooth it, perfect it,
and tuck it away in the back of my skull
for safekeeping.
Because every time I hear the label
given to you by your parents before they could meet
the personality it was branded into,
my world gets jolted in a way that’s
unfair when you are so far away from
goosebumps and scratches and
lights out night(‘)s out warmth.