• You’ve said you knew every wavering thing. You’ve said
    you knew the patterns of the winds, the dances of the dead.
    But you didn’t know I can’t sing. I am no
    cricket of your perfectly organized night, I am no
    mourning dove at your own funeral, I am no
    breeze of honey-colored satisfaction, no wave of truthful utterings,
    no chasm of wide-open arms.

    You knew when the sun would rise. You knew of
    the argument that would break out in your polished streets.
    But you didn’t predict a word I was going to say.
    Even if I whispered the ABCs in your ear, even if
    I counted all the way to one thousand, you could not see
    the words coming next.

    You could feel a tree grow from miles away, you could
    feel a child’s steps on the pavement, a birds wings on the breeze.
    But you couldn’t feel my heartbeat. No matter
    if your hands were on my moonlight-pale skin that I had
    cleaned just for you, no matter if your head was lying
    in wait on my chest, you could feel
    nothing.

    You could remember every word of a long and dusty book, you could
    remember the sequence of cars driving by on the street.
    But you could never remember what I looked like. The
    color of my eyes never could stay in your mind, nor
    the sun-caressed tone of my hair, nor my
    large and succulent cheeks, not even the sound
    of my voice.

    You could love a cockroach scampering along the floor, you
    could love a pile of dirt, a broken twig, a disfigured face. But
    no matter how many nights you spend in my meticulously
    made bed, no matter how many times you cried my name,
    no matter how many times you kissed my perfectly-formed
    lips, you could never love me.