I open myself
to tell you exactly what
I think
need
feel
want
know

But all that comes out
is this, a riddle
a mess of crumpled pictures
tangled emotions
and unclear intentions.
My mouth curves like fingers
around the words I speak
and suddenly it hits me

How these spangled words mean things
I can't ever explain
and all the while I'm hoping
just hoping that you understand
what I don't know how to say.

I still don't understand what happened
and it doesn't matter if I never do.
Can't we just huddle together in our paperback house
let notes and beats carry us to that place where
we're not saying a word and that means
everything?
Where each eye-caress and butterfly-touch
is eternal?
Can't we?