I’d write you a book but
words always lead me astray
away, the pages even shy
the words aren’t really mine
to call my own
they’re just borrowed like the time
with you, there’s not enough
hands and flesh
misplaced my breath
somewhere in the sheets
playing hide and seek
near your whispering eyes
where I’ll trace your lips and drink your sighs
until I’ve breathed some part of you inside of me
that I can’t ever seem to grasp
my doubts, they’re always doubting me
but a few pale, tumbled words
from you is all I need
to wash my ghosts back out to sea
