Tongue Tied at the End
The things I’d tell you
with your arms wrapped around my hips
if the buildings weren’t crumbling
and I could move my lips.
The songs I’d sing you
long after the stroke of midnight
if the clocks would still tick
metronome beats to our bodies’ riffs.
I’d give you the bouquet—
brilliant as blooming hills in the spring—
if rain woke the open-casket river to
let us remember the pinks, the greens.
But
these things,
these songs,
these flowering thoughts,
only come
tongue tied
at the end.
If the Earth stopped shaking
and I moved my lips
I’d tell you how your body is an eclipse
that wraps me in darkness,
the only light, your soul,
a halo around the moon’s last night.
If the clocks moved again with redemption,
I’d sing you a song that would never need
rewrite, the first note to the last would be
flawless, and we’d dance at each hourly
chime.
But
The dry earth crumbles,
rumbles timeless now and
we let our tongues tie together
at the end—
tangled, silent,
intertwined.
