Words are cloying. Approaching mundane proportions
They are the lexical granules, slowly stewed to meaty fragrance,
    that I habitually use
To stuff your paragraphs and chapters to the fullest.
    Saturated,
How should I go about interpreting the taste buds’ confessions
The loving feelings, floating about like a light snack and
    brimming with imaginings
Of you breathing hard. Indifferent to the spreading, emaciating
    epileptic confusion
I listen to the wan but musical voice whispering stories like
    an hourglass
As oppressive repetition keeps me tied to this world, day
    after day. But you,
In delicate manuscripts you contemplate beauty that is too
    turbid, too opaque
You leave the language of loneliness exposed in the white
    frost of cold propositions
You take the ephemeral charm of autumnal tints to brew
    wine against the cold
Filling the cup to the brim with deep musings. Yearning
    coalesces
And in your reticence I fold up patients. I chew on the distance
That doesn’t allow me to visit. The tightly sewn-up wounds
    sung of in your letters
I feel are your naked response written in the mirror
Mocking the empty soul chanted of in my pupils
Turning into pale symbols of ever-widening nomadic
    release