Your voice, imagine it—held in
a conch shell, or in the damp
cold breath of an unformed wish.
What would it take to speak
despite a cut throat, or with lungs
fully soaked and drowning?
This is where we meet, then—this
place where there’s no air, soundlessly
mouthing the syllables for “beloved”
since we’ve long forgotten our names.
No comments:
Post a Comment