story time: government building. compliments on a red velvet case. “are you sure you want both? it drags on the tongue.” i am sure, i say. you would not remove a star from a soldier. think of a lone forbearing soldier under a black sky, opaque and unyielding; that is not a fair trade. the star and the soldier cannot be without one another.
story time: a window on a wall that leads to a hole. there is nothing in the hole, and the window has no pane. you cannot watch the sun rise from this room, but you can watch the sun shine on your fingers. a song pulses and sneaks through the curtains, “here we are tongue-tied, before we collide—” and you narrowly miss it.
story time: around a table. all of your personalities compounded in your mother tongues, and all of your mother tongues wagging in various judgements of character. i make no effort to mingle with you as the need has passed. i am not new to this space. we are all in exodus. no one wants to go back, but i do, i know my part.
story time: i let the silence be, clear and abating; i let it cover me with a warmth that could never compare. when you press your finger on my lips, i swallow all your might and confine it my chest in lieu of a nightingale or two. every day i strive to pluck birds from my ribcage. when i think too much, they do not sing; but i always hope that underneath the skin and behind the bones, their melody pulls through and i find my tongue.