Our Language
When the candles
burn down, the red
sunset sputters,
goes black, when
we leave the last
sips of wine in
the glasses, swish
it in patterns
so the dregs
shift like dark
grains of sand…
My eyes find the space
crickets can’t fill,
between where
words end and
skin meets skin.
You put your forehead
to mine, your hands
on my shoulders.
Our language is made
of small words,
muscular, kinetic,
but we leave
them silent, heavy
on our tongues.
I raise my hands
to frame your face,
stubble grazing
my wrists.
Smell the ozone rise
as the lightning
stitches the sky,
thunder ringing.
Our language is
one of questions,
not demands.
***
Read more of Kris Bigalk’s poetry.
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Photo by One Day Closer/Flickr
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