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