[untitled]

I'm utterly obsessed
with the way the syllables in your name
slip from my tongue.
Like butter onto a perfect slice of bread,
or soft fingers on my head.

Like, words, words, words--
my love split into first, seconds, and thirds.
I keep coming back.
Yet the yearning is still on my tongue.
Like a youthful lust for something
that's entirely unobtainable;
because I'll never conquer your name—
but, perhaps one day,
I'll come to terms with
the way it echos in my eardrums.
Perhaps one day,
I'll mend my lisp
and whisk you away
from the stutters and crime.
One day, yeah, I'll take the time—
to show you my mind and
all the words I've left unsaid.

But really, right now, it's just this:
You untwist my wrists.
You unlisp my lisps.
You make my stutter
into more of an uncontrollable joy—
a violent vibration
of those same syllables
in your name
going from my feet
to my throat.
Too big for me to swallow,
but too delicate to vomit out.