for weeks on end i
have tried
to talk myself out of you,
each time,
my head hits the pillow screaming.
better lying there listening
than dreaming
of the bridgewater eyes
and marigold lashes which i
spend so, so much time
talking myself away from.
doldrums
in the deep..
i talk myself to sleep
and awareness again as soon
as i can,
'cause there it is,
your impatient hand.
it would warm me weak if i took it up
(oh..)
if my susceptible fingers
collided with the plateau
of your sugar pink palm
and curled through its corners,
four corners.
i couldn't talk my hands out of yours if it,
if it
..happened.
well then i'll look out windows.
shades sighing open,
i can put my chin in my hands
(instead) and
stare out at the shoreline
of the coastline city.
plaster and glass
to confine me.
distant waves breaking
the nocturnal bay
but oh no, oh no,
they remind me of the way
your voice
has its crests and
its troughs,
and it's black navy blue
and has pearl bubbles too,
and the vast fluid depths
are concealed by a surface so rough
that i'm diving again.
i talk myself, scream myself
shaking
up onto the shore
and moor
myself to the bedpost.
my clothes are heavy with water
and words,
collapsed in the sheets
and collapsed in the sand
and far off the waves lap unperturbed.
your voice
the warm water that drowns me in sleep
my voice
the cold water that wakens me.
i talk my lungs back into breathing and
my heart back into beating and
my head back into screaming.
i'd talk
you into making it stop
if i only were braver than this.
///
