Writer: back down.
No amount of poetry flirts with the woman who does not read.
No words seduce the woman who fetishizes silence.
In my world, the words,
“I love you.”
fly across the page when said. Those words dash from one mouth to the other and bites on the way out. The interlocutors interlock lips.
I shut my mouth and you filled the silence with a gaze I suspect kills most victims.
I thought reticence meant resistance. It meant: “Stop talking and start fucking. Then you will know.”
Grant me forgiveness — not for being late to notice, but for still having to put it in language, on paper, still having to consult my interpreter before loving.