I cannot explain
why apologies are lining
themselves up on my fingertips.
Counting one after the other, keeping score
a strange bouquet of simple words
swimming in cerulean selfish sadness
syncopating stitches to my lips.
A taste of sin.
Certainly you remember I need to speak.
I am incomplete without
the words in my mouth.
At least let me know when you need
silence so I don’t send paper swans
sailing before you are ready to steer them.
My tongue is heavy
with stories and sorries waiting
to wash up on shore.
I size them up, letter by letter
smoothing stinging nettles with
a slow hand and, severing
My own self-sympathy, I
sit with them in the dark.
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