When you hung the decor from the rafters,
and built these walls with the prints of your fingers;
proceeded to line the floors with flowers, wedged into gaps,
that were inconspicuous until each bud and shoot grew
Speak to me, everything you wanted to say;
feeble may it be with the dull edge of your knife,
softened by the mishandled touch of your previous lovers,
delicate from your pain, so you learned to be silent -
never swift, never sure.
Your silent words fluttered in and out of sight,
seared into my home like the etch of fire on word,
ingrained till the grains were no longer marks, but my haven
please tell, for a long time I've known, all this is true.
love is almost like a tumble by the stairs - up and down, and landing somewhere in between
