To me,
My words,
Are my thoughts. 
Milk in a pan drifting,
Lazily in mexican waves,
On tiptoes with fingertips,
Stroking the three litre line.

to you 
my words are 
the time you blinked
and clots of milk swelled into pregnant pufferfishes
and a siren hissed incessant incantions you swore fate birthed to hex your mind
and a trident foamed at the mouth relishing the theft of nature's permission to shapeshift  into a lightening bolt and to zap your stove a blistering white in three times ten to the eight metres per second