(no subject)

[_allergic]

You say the better things are simple.

We pile onto the couches of knowledge,
telling eachother our sizes, our apologies.

You tell me you cannot think, either,
Yout cannot
when voices intercept with
your waves:
a oceanhouse of warmth
and seafoam floors.
What were you trying to build here?
Our letters of crinkled thankyou's
and quiet greetings?
I've been missing words for years,
and when we sneak around jealous bones,
we decide voices are more powerful
than sleep.
Who needs slumber when our words
run deeper than dreams?

I do not mean to wrap my
cliches around your nothings,
like your thumbs around glass.
I'm your sliding beads of warmth,
the silence of reassurance,
concluding on the top of your palms.