He wants me to open my mouth,
muse, but we are all stealing
words from where ever
we can find them, so I swallow hard
instead, that he can take the words
from the movement of my hands
in motion, as though so effortlessly
flawed, he says, but to his ears, music,
as the sentences we construct take air,
where so often I will find them
resting on wires, before they’ll “fly, fly, fly,
quick! to my lover! who waits to hear.”

Tagged ,

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: