I walk the farmland where harvest dies, where the fresh of
overweight rain still sits in my nostrils and so I press my palms
to the meadow and drown. I sink deeper in the loamy soil
that inhales homesickness
like water in waste lands. And I drown, again,
though this time I think I may have
pulled a muscle.
I drown until we get there. You stand where you stood
and so did I. We move our lips in conversational scripts like
muted tape recordings or old films that no one watches
and I get the feeling you are saying something that
I haven't quite heard yet.
There is an asymmetrical pause that your fingers follows to.
You tell me, "love, I am the salt by the side of your lips. I am
the thumping of beats in your chest— the gnarr in your stomach
and the buzzing in your ears."
When you stop speaking, I stop to listen to the ache
orbiting my neck. It strains me to my ribcage and I feel you talk
again. I tell you to just stop talking but there's
always a but.
You still keep talking.
So you say, "I am the sky over your head. I am the ocean
that you swim in, and I am the ground that you drown with."
I wait for the silence and guess it's some sort
I think I may be in over my head.
We seem to rhyme in utter togetherness
and your lips are my lips. We speak the same incoherent muteness
in ways not more than one. I rip out the pages
except for the last.
It is final and permanent when you tell me:
"And yet, still, I am nothing."