I thought if I exhumed his words
I could rearrange the feeling—
Turn them to soft, yellow ducks,
warm brie and cranberry,
into pink cashmere sweaters.
Words can be soft if you want them to be.
They hold power to be carnality,
or a regality to love;
tenderness thriving on tranquility.
Words can be six holy oranges
or six missing harp strings.
With forgiveness,
they can be reinterred,
and given a sweeter burial.
“I met you, wish I never.”
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 9:19 AM UTC
I thought if I exhumed his words
I could rearrange the feeling—
Turn them to soft, yellow ducks,
warm brie and cranberry,
into pink cashmere sweaters.
Words can be soft if you want them to be.
They hold power to be carnality,
or a regality to love;
tenderness thriving on tranquility.
Words can be six holy oranges
or six missing harp strings.
With forgiveness,
they can be reinterred,
and given a sweeter burial.
“I met you, wish I never.”
