It’s kinda funny how he does it.
How every word becomes a piece of him.
How he writes bread into flesh
and wine into water because
blood leaves stains behind …
Every syllable a symphony of
lazy limbs and tangled hair.
His fingers breaking my curls
into waves of
unheard ballads
This must be what happens when
a siren falls in love with a deaf man.
When you get God’s answering machine
and the voice mail’s full.
This feeling so small –
like black holes dripping from my chest, pulling my stomach into itself.
To leave behind nothing but
a memory of doves
serenading the infinite