Wisps of words; unconvincing
Tonight July leaves center stage; quiet sounds surround empty rooms and fill the darkness with comfort, the curve of a neck in which we bury the unspeakable. The evening is velvet in its death, and we lean into ourselves, how could we not? To harbor shivers and whispers and never untie the knots, to keep, to fold. You tell me this is a love where we see each other in irises shattered by light - oh sweetheart, don’t seek me when you lay your mistakes down by my own. Believe me, instead. Hold my words as if they come and never stayed, hold them as if you didn’t know me too well, as if "knowing better" was faint history. Relieve me, instead. Tell me back the story of how the kinds of love come in threes. Tell me that this shade of paucity does not blind us, but rather binds us. Oh, you. Recite these words not out of memory but out of a heart enmeshed in experience. Forgive me, instead.