The hushed cooing of the voices in front of me,
Like doves whispering about something they find divine
to share with each other: breadcrumbs on the asphalt,
clouds not predisposed to rain.
They swallow me whole, these voices,
They are like all the melted caramel I’ve tried to roll before
on my tongue, when I listen to your deep sighs
at night when you sleep.
Picking up a phone is easy enough but syllables
is where it gets harder: what do you do when everything
you want to say is spelled on a different tongue?
When niceties and declarations and insults make more sense
in foreign words, what do you do to make yourself clear?
For me, the only thing I can think to do is to kiss you, right now.
Because I can’t pronounce even the swear words you taught me,
And I can’t remember how to roll the sweetness of “I love you”
from my throat,
So I’ll kiss you in the hushed way that water is in a brook;
like this is the secret I’ve been meaning to tell you.