you’ve barely touched your words;
they’re getting cold. Your keys sit stationary,
the pen doesn’t move. Are they rancid in your mind,
have they turned to ash? Do they fumble out like lemons
out of a bowl and into the dustbin? Why can’t you share them? Oh,
you can’t grasp their eelish alacrity? Do they smell of the room once
the birthday candles have been blown out? Why do you let them gather dust
in the ceiling corner in your room while flies circlce their helium moon god?
Your face is wet? Mine too; I thought it was the rain. Instead, they seep down your face,
the words,
so moist,
so tasty.