Talking and talking comfortably, is liking someone?
Is asking for satisfaction, that is necessarily physical
Or sexual, a mirage or a single breath of pleasure?
But talking was about longer breaths of words
And emotions and stories of our bones and wounds
Talking was reading with your the soul-book of another
It was silent and always just beneath the layer of words
But still forever in need of words as its excuses
It was reaching out to the heart quivering ‘neath their smiles
An afraid, unsure, ashamed yet relentless heart
That beat drums so loud you could see in their red ears
But ever so soft that they need conversations to be heard