I want to swallow my tongue.
Make you excavate my mouth
until you are pulling
up broken teeth
chipped and bent
with promises,
and some bits of shoddy

You claim you are language lover
yet, every word I’ve written with you in mind
has made my tongue become
like bat in the cavern that is my mouth,
hanging until you are asleep
and I set flight on this keyboard,
writing nocturnal.

Lover, you are the never-ending stutter.
The nervous tick below my eye
the sweaty palms,
and trembling thighs;
knees bouncing until they
“Shave and a Haircut”
up into my canines which bite back
“two bits”.

I am scared I will only ever know a “love” like this.
The butterflies,
honey-moon unending haze
that us young ones confuse
when we think we’ve found
“The One”.

And yet I stare at you
in the eye,
unaffected by this word-icane,
by the howling that claws its way
out of my throat,
begging to ride the wind.
I have been told to wait for this.

I have been told that nervousness
comes and goes and
words only trip over themselves,
so that your feet can follow
onto solid ground;
feel your heartbeat come to rest
meet the eyes of the handsomest man you’ve ever met
and sigh in understanding
that love is not a stutter,
but a whisper.
The silence,
the calm,
inside the storm.


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