Conversation

Con
verse

You trick my words
and twist their meanings,
until they drip sticky pieces
of letters

jumbled up
in sounds of coo and
goo and ahh,
until my sentences
are bittersweet songs,
that pour out of yesterday's longing

with their yellow banners silently
waving
goodbye to that 'naive' definition.

You're against my stance.
And you take that uncertainty
in my spaces and use their hollow
vowels to howl back
beautiful, black, smokey lines I have
been wanting to
want.
Waiting to
write...

Oh, the words
that tremble with excitement
I have yet to announce
because
I am filled with

con
ver
sational

doubts.

An artist of words is never clarifying.
They only reveal enough skin
to give a personal image of the territory,
because every body,
every freckle,
every scar
has transformative meaning.

But if I have to
justify my meaning in progression
and fight for no clues to
wisdom in lesson,

tell me what is the point,
the punctuation mark,
in continuing this conversation?