Letters

Some words are worth more than others
and I've weighed and counted and divided
them till my fingers bled and I wonder
if I've really said anything at all.
Using the words I do, I don't.
You would think that the absolute precious
quality of life, the tensile hold we have
would make it so courage was borne into
our very bones,
fortifying them and ourselves.
(But you'd be wrong.)
And my bones ache so very much
with everything unsaid.

Deeply Inept

I don’t know what it is you demand,
I don’t know if you’d understand
How pleased I am to have met you,
How I don’t know what to do.
I don’t need metaphors,
Just layman’s terms
To define the tightening in my chest,
My shallow breath.
Nothing could ever be said
To be its equal.
Perhaps you do know
What you’ve said without saying so,
That is all.