I'm goner.
Spit one last splash of lukewarm words out
and I'm a solid rock on my bed.
You see,
I whisper words out to the world
like the way you'd sing to a plant,
silently so as not to be overheard,
but hoping that a soft tune
will make it grow.
I speak to you
the way a child asks the stars
for his wish to come true,
considerately, moderately,
shyly, greedily.
And then I shut my eyes.