Still Light

As if we speak in circles,
where words come back
round again, aware of
every movement;
of the hands,
the face, the eyes,
even the lift of the brow
into the forehead,
and why is it I love
this expression; inquisitive?
as my senses seem
too heightened,
where even language
will lose its meaning
on the mind,
for how hard it is to listen,
in these brief
and puzzling moments,
that he will ask me later,
in a whisper, in the dark,
“what was it you remembered?”
he who speaks
as the man I love,
and I will tell him –
what words stuck in my heart.