Practicing Bluntness

I want to practice bluntness.
Chip away at the point
until I am shapely,
until I have curves that
aren’t lost in the spaces
between the lines, and in the air
between us.
The short breaths among my words
are my heart jumping.
You didn’t know –
my tongue
has a string tied
to a blanketed heart.
I stumble my way across
our practical conversation
making light
as I weigh
your words like a hot stones.

I think you know you love someone when you find an old photo, one you didn’t remember taking or intend to find, and something settles into your ribcage that is hot and cold at once. Its a strange sensation, like something is decidedly laying low, while another half pushes at your seams.

 

Happy birthday L-train. Love you.