Be careful of words,
even the miraculous ones.
For the miraculous ones we do our best,
sometimes they swarm like insects
and leave not a sting but a kiss.
They can be good as fingers.
They can be trusty as the rock
you stick your bottom on.
But they can be both daisies and bruises.

Yet I am in love with words.
They are doves falling out of the ceiling.
They are six holy oranges sitting in my lap.
They are the trees, the legs of summer,
and the sun, its passionate face.

Yet often they fail me.
I have so much I want to say,
so many stories, images, proverbs, etc.
But the words aren’t good enough,
the wrong ones kiss me.
Sometimes I fly like an eagle
but with the wings of a wren.

But I try to take care
and be gentle to them.
Words and eggs must be handled with care.
Once broken they are impossible
things to repair.

That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific. But when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn’t include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.

She had always wanted words, she loved them; grew up on them. Words gave her clarity, brought reason, shape.

He says that humans are made from the nuclear ash of dead stars. He says that when I die, I’ll return to dust, glitter, rain. If that’s true, I want to be buried right here under this tree. Its roots will reach into the soft mess of my body and suck me dry. I’ll be re-formed as apple blossom. I’ll drift down in the spring like confetti and cling to my family’s shoes. They’ll carry me in their pockets to help them sleep. What dreams will they have then?

Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.

Our eyelashes brushed like they would weave together by themselves, turning us into one wild thing. I say, ‘I think I missed you before I met you even.’

Kissing him was a little like rolling in caramel after spending years surviving off rice sticks.

If I try to summon back his face, the sound of his voice, and the sensation in my stomach like a key turning in a lock when he touched me, I lose everything.

With you, I’m useless with words. As if somehow I had to learn to speak all over again, as if the words I needed haven’t been invented yet.

Words. Words. I play with words, hoping that some combination, even a chance combination, will say what I want.