If they were only words,
without strings,
they would fly as
untethered balloons, skyward.

If it did not lead to consequences
miles and miles of dominoes,
they would be set free, easily.

But these syllables are not music,
they are simply keys,
that open more doors than they close,

so no such words will I utter,
and no peace will you know.

I feel them brushing
flitfluttering
against my face,
leaving gentle marks of powder
like the color on my cheeks,

my skin remembering their touch
again and
again and
then comes another: warm, soft;

it joins the others and
suddenly
I wish I could catch them,

hold them,
pin them to cardboard
like butterflies.

Slow down!,
I want to enjoy
these words your mouth makes,
these words like warmth
like wind the silken touch of weathered wings

so when you tell me
I was right to be bitter
I will not hurt so loudly.

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