i can feel you
just past my fingertips
lightly guiding my time
here

and i wonder if you
hear me when
i talk to
you

~~~

language
is a slippery slope
a slow burn to
bonfire blaze
flames
licking the sides
of a place
you once called
home

language
and manipulation of it
is spending years
decades even
trying to find
the perfect word or phrase
for every situation/
meaning/
feeling
until you realize
language will never be enough
so you just do what you gotta
until the day when something
comes close enough
that it gives you
a shadow of
that feeling

language
is my art form
and when i’ve done it right
it paints pictures without a canvas,
tells stories sans narratives,
brings others into a close embrace
without ever
getting
near

and for someone who despises words
and their limitations
as much as i do,
i sure hold language dear.

~~~

is it time?
time to prose it up
again?

my fingers now type
automatically
in stanzas
(could i even go back
to straight narrative
if i tried?)

these poems might not be
exactly
what i’m trying to say,
but damn is it closer than any
‘stream of consciousness’
over-writing
will get me.