Speak To Me

Leave me not in poetic terms. Linguistically, let me linger

upon the newly formed words of your lips.

 

Season the expressway leading to your love, for you are

that ruby-red strawberry dipped in Carmel.

 

Infatuation is like a smooth stone skipped across the surface

of glistening seas.

 

If I have failed to dive deep into the affections that comprise

the wishing well of your heart—let me refresh myself.

 

Your hints are like wisps that give me glimmers of hope

that burst forth like seedlings breaking ground.

 

My love is not available in books or stores. You cannot

retrieve my love from shelves lined with possibility.

 

No. My love is a one-of-a-kind love. Conceived in spirit and

made manifest by my affection for you.


Speak to me in soft tones of aspiration. Tally my responses

as if deposits to your emotional bank account.

 

Put away all your wishes and just ask me if I love you

more than myself.

 

Speak to me.

 

© emmett wheatfall

 

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