articulation as a house would never work,
more or less like how i say the words
and it fails to make a frame
or a door to keep you safe.
(i'm tired of pens and pencils,
vocal chords, keys and screens
wasting all their precious ways
on all these abstract things.)
a house is a world and the world a house
inside out, telling you things
about themselves and about yourself
about you and me, if you listen closely.
(i dreamt i was an envelope,
your story lived inside of me,
i hid you from the sun with lips,
and dark flourescent lights and eyes
of sentries of a mess of lines
would never smudge a line of yours
inside a paper wall, locked away
with a kiss. )
half of love is letting go
half of it is doors and windows
the things that deny each wall
so dialogue can whisper out and in.
