What We Mean When We Don’t Say What We Mean
When you whisper in my ear
it’s like a million miniature feathers
tickling my skin, and I pause
to wonder if, somewhere
deep down in your lungs,
a million tiny birds live
fluttering, song-filled lives.
And, if so, are their songs also your songs?
Are their laments and losses and loves also yours to croon about?
And do your throat and mouth ever grow dry?