Speak

I want to know: The feeling of your hands entwined with mine. The softness of your skin next to me. Whether or not you fall asleep with your arms wrapped around a pillow Or yourself After a hard day. Do you wake easily? Fall asleep quickly? Or do you lie awake for hours thinking of every mistake you made at age five? 12? 28? How ironic it is that we can remember the mistakes of 16 and 263 days but not the sound of our own father’s voice. Tell me about those nights. Those nights were you did not think you’d make it to sun’s next welcome message through your bedroom window I want to know if the sunrise was beautiful as your sleepy eyes on a Monday morning? Or was it just another reminder of the vicious cycle of life we’re all trying to escape from? Tell me about the times where you heard news that made your heart drop. Drop and shatter. Shatter into tiny haunting shards that will never be put back together. I long to hear your thoughts on: religion and war, death and life, family and abandonment, love and despair. Each end of the spectrum is extreme. Where do you fall? What made you that way? We are all shaped by our experiences that never really fade away. Tell me about all your lost opportunities. Lost last moments. Lost loves. I want to listen to the words you were too afraid to repeat to anybody but yourself. The words you wish you had said To make up for what you did not do; The lives you did not care for; The people you did not comfort; The friends you did not keep in touch with. Tell me about why you like rainy days. Or why you dont. Tell me about what you think of thunderstorms in the middle of the night. Honey. Honey. Honey. You’re as sweet as the first batch of springtime honey in the midst of May. Beauty. Beauty. Beauty. You have always been the beauty of life rising in the mornings with bluebells and ladybugs. Darling. Darling. Darling. Tell me about your favorite season. Fall, as the leaves fall and the chill comes to conquer? Winter, as the freezing air makes your breath visible in the noon time atmosphere? Spring, as the brush of nature takes color and swipes it across the canvas of winter’s withering wonderland? Summer, as the starry night sky sparkles as millions of souls look down upon the heated and wandering survivors of painful pasts and presents? Baby, tell me everything you have left to tell me. Until you have nothing left to tell me. Tell. me. Do you know how your eyes reflect love? Speak.