there is always that space there
just before they get to us
that fine relaxer
flopping on a bed
thinking of nothing
pouring a glass of water from the
while entranced by
just to scratch your neck
while looking out the window at
a bare branch
before they get to us
when they do
get it all
If your mouth were a cave
I would crawl into it,
and find my way to the cranial staircase.
I would reach for every message —
every signal sent — and read each one earnestly.
If your thoughts were an ocean
I would dive into it,
and let the tides carry me wherever.
If your body were a mountain
I would ascend it,
and gather from the scree the pieces of you that were lost over the years.
I would tackle your crags and your slopes
until I reached your peak, holding your fragile fragments in my cupped hands.
If my body were a diary
I would open my pages for you
so you could write down all the things that you cannot tell me.