if words were sustenance
you think that you
could live off hers;
sliding like blood
off a tongue as sharp
as steel,
expressions gleaming
like all of the
precious metals on earth,
all at once, but
acting independent from
each other.
you think,
one day,
that even if
she slips away
from you,
you would give up experiencing
anything, everything
life has yet to offer you
because nothing,
nothing
could compare to
the webs of words
and syllables,
and metaphors
that she has spoken,
just to you, only to you
.
.
you think it's a waste.
