we talk, but we’re not saying anything; we’re
just tracing circles with our tongues and hoping
it somehow it says enough.  maybe if we say
the same things over and over again, we can
make something out of our endless nothing
--but darling, i don’t think it works that way

we write, we teach ourselves to talk in tongues;
reciting words we cannot say out loud, twisting
them into some sort of meaningful display of
the truth.  maybe we’ve been dancing around
our lies too long, making fires out of matchstick
promises. apologies are hard, sure, but it’s even
harder to mean them, darling.  

you can ask me over and over again:
“what is it that you long to hear?”

and i’ll keep saying:
“if you don’t know by now, what’s the use?”

we talk, but we’re not saying anything.
we exchange apologies like handshakes
--and darling, i don’t think it works that way