Standing in a room full of words
I find none to fit the breath before me,
trying to become a sentence describing
the significance and my dependence upon
all that is you.
I tug at words but like sliding in and then
out of your bear like slip-ons they just don’t fit.
I play with fonts; like that will make a difference
but whether in Candara or Braggadocio, my heart
craves you the same and still lexicon can’t frame it.
Tongue tied and awkward, I realize there is a limit
to logos. It’s like saying I’m fluent and then suddenly
I become stumped by flailing “Plomero Spanish,” spiraling
out of control, wading in “¿Cómo se dice?” for
“stay,” “you,” “need,” and the ever evasive, “adore.”
When you are the subject it’s clear I could never write
for Hallmark. So let this blunder serve as the legend to my
faux pas. Blank stares are glances lost in awe and wonder.
“Shut the hell up,” is a cry for patience and maybe caffeine and
of course a side-eye assures you are still here.
Perhaps it’s passive aggression that spawns this game of verbal tag-
you pull me in and I push back with lingual paralysis, just fancy for the cat
stole my tongue and fenced it on Craig’s List. Bottom line is, my left foot
searches for your warm calf at three in the morning. That means I love you and
a soft hand whisping the small of your back is “I’m sorry.”
Copyright Asani Charles
Life in Print 