I don’t trust words.
No, that’s not true.
I trust the shape of the mouths that
spoke them when words still
sang the song of my heart.
I love the way language bends
but I’m lost now it doesn’t point in
the direction I thought it would follow,
a crooked signpost on a winding lane.
I hate the meaning words were given
by a logic I don’t understand.
I want to believe words as they
form on the tongue
while they still feel like something
I could hold in my hands
instead of sounds made of abstract ideas;
a sunrise-sunset that blankets a
brittle world of blue and green in
soft and silky gold.
Words are liars with their pretty smiles
and curling edges.
Sometimes, the words that are spoken
stretch and coil until they arrive at
my ears in a different shape.
Sometimes the words reach me
exactly as they were meant.
Sometimes that’s worse.