When I find the water too tepid
I allow my fingers to plié.
On the rounded, porcelain stage, I offer the performance of my life.
When their words resemble an onslaught of interminable traffic
I become the dramaturge
I rearrange tedium into tango and the contentions of their convention
into syllabic song.
Distant? I indulge the sound of his voice
allow its timber to stroke my skin
hold the small of my back
and bathe the entirety of my torso.
He swallows me WHOLE.
In moments unbearably laconic
I stand and span my wings as wide as the sycamore
and take in all available words of puissance
for the epic I will write.
When I feel the air’s weight
and the chafing of my thoughts
I walk outside and press my ear against the wind.
I release languor
and receive the angels’ charge.
And thus, I pray.
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