just know, sweet Cynthia,
sweet Cynthia of the summer,
soft Cynthia singing in spring, I'd capture you
and hold you in a conch shell,
keep your voice as mine, and only mine,
my own secret, so continue to sing
and pour your voice into the shell—
you are dusted in a golden ray of light,
there are wafts of chocolate and cocoa that spray
from you, like a mist of shea, toasted almonds,
and a warm vanilla swirl, like the glossiness
your voice has as you coo, croon, and swoon—
Cynthia, pistia, pistis, to drink:
I sip your voice like wine, my glowing-ambrosia
that serenades my dehydration, I'd have you,
in any way, in any way I could, to keep you
I eye your dewy skin, I have to look away,
flushed as if with fever —
spotted upon your amber neck, tawny and bronzed. . .
diamonds sleep around your collars,
your voice reverbs and skips throughout
my skeleton, my sternum, boils in my marrow—
I want you and your words—
you sing our braided history,
you let me rest within the cradle of your timbre,
read aloud to me this book, sing it to me,
move your jaw to shape the resonance,
paint my four walls with tones,
overtones, pitches, unheard waveforms
saccharine and diluted, powdery you taste, powdered sugar
and still, you are a cool liquid tumbling down my throat,
down my esophagus, I want you, I want your
voice—
I capture your runs and licks
in a crystal, a vial made of alexandrite,
your voice bounces, trapped in its crystal lattice
I wear it as earrings, I wear you as decoration,
and I hear you all day, throughout the night, all the time,
poisonous words, spritely voice,
killing me softly