The momentary confines
And the viscosity of this remembering
It sticks to my throat
And I think of ways to love
Beyond the way of words
Beyond the everyday exchange
But to hold on to everything
Past and future in these frail hands
Sew them deep into the leftover stains
From Sunday brunches
And midnight snacks

At ease
You tell me
I listen, I listen, I listen

The pain of telling stories
Clutches onto my chest
I wish I could tell you what hurts
And what doesn't

But I listen, I listen, and listen