To Ask by: Rose Clifford
I push the words back,
as they grow salty on my tongue,
sitting there – taking home,
in the dryness of my mouth.
My stomach getting weaker,
in its state of entropy,
I feel a pit, as small as an almond,
as noticeable as a brick.
Swarming of thoughts ready to escape,
I shake, like buzzing bees in the summer wake.
Who knew soft words were hard to form,
On the structured base of my throat?
I cringe wondering your reply,
will this be a destination of relocation,
my mind needing a solid verb,
to understand this hesitating sigh.
I burden myself with this task,
I cannot handle a rejection at best.
You pour through my veins,
cryptically calling me words so lovely.
But, this question I cannot gulp down my throat,
anymore – seize my body with anger or happiness.
I just thirst for the answer – my mouth dehydrated,
for the truth of your brittle love.
Is it me or her that takes up the space at night,
liquefying all stress into calming bliss.
If my head is filled with this, then I cannot resist,
that your heart is with her, not here with me tonight.