Size / / /
Storytellers speak of stolen lives,
enchanted with a song,
slipped beneath the surface—
desire distilled.
Mine is not a beautiful hunger.
I am brittle from wind and weeping,
hollowed out with longing,
an unused instrument.
I want; I want; I want
to touch you,
but all I have is sound,
the mass of shadows.
If only it were simple
to break free from the scales,
to caress with more than smoke of sighs,
I would escape the fairytale.
Each time I see you, I break
and open,
the weight of all I’ll never have
so heavy in my mouth.