you tell me that I always tell you

what you want to hear

that words will never be my 


and this is what i want to hear

when i tell you

that i care, that i will stay even

when i leave

when i tell you i will be okay

if you are okay

but i dont tell you what I want to 

hear when im lost

in my thoughts and my words

in a translucent world

that my laugh is like wind chimes but

also humid days in july

and i dont tell you that your hands

on the soft edges of my hips 

feel like water lapping the shore

and i know that later

the same hands will feel 

like water again

but drowning me in the current

of a storm

an emollient to the thunder and

the wanton ways we swim together

what I want to hear is that my hips

are like the breakers 

of the waves of the emotion you feel

trying harder to kiss the shore

that I’m svelte but only in your

presence because in the

rest of the world my elbows are bruised

and my shins are stalwart

and that even thought I’m taciturn

i make conversation colloquially 

and right now you are a panacea

to my homesickness and

my writers block and i am appeased

but not content 

with everything you have given me so far

because i know you have been

clandestine and i know there is

a myriad of secrets to share

between us, betwixt us, above us,

about us

but only in modicum measurements

it’s always zenith with you which

we build up from the

highest nadir

and it’s not that i tell you the things

you want to hear

merely that i tell you the things

i want to hear

i am obsequious to my own