first words

I can see the writing on the wall
it looks like your obituary
In the room, not yours, I swallow a stone
heavy enough that I might never move
Or reach

You gave me my tongue
still, I can hardly torque it in a way to say
I love you so that you might understand while you’re still here
Half the time I just say 
me too
Where is the verb? the act of me loving you?
It’s gone away—I gave it away to all the other things I have to do
To live a life you can hardly imagine

You mean everything to me
but you don’t even know what I mean when I say
these crazy little things
Do you?

Somehow, it was possible that you were my first words
my entire vocabulary was you
It was not very clear or eloquent or clean
toothless gums slobbered on your finger was all it was
some drool steeped like tea inside my mouth
But I didn’t have to utter a single word
for you to know what I meant
we’ve gone so far away from that ooey gooey love
It’s translated now
broken and incorrect
trailed off
trapped in an um so long it is the universe’s circumference,
a thread that connects us in all lifetimes
and it’s here, in some thing
you will never read or know about

You know I crawled to you first?
before I ever got on my knees
to drunkenly slither into bed
To please a man
To pray to god
To make this feeling in my chest go away

I wore a t-shirt once that said
Daddy’s little girl
Bought a card that read
World’s best mom
it started and ended there

I know a lot of this doesn’t make much sense
it’s not the language you don’t get
it’s not the language you don’t get
it’s not the contractions or syntax or silent e at the end of sense or language or even at the end of this sentence
it’s bigger than that
and five foot three, plus several dozen miles and years and daydreams
it’s tiny, hot tears, and a second of silence — all at once, huge and heavy
the small of it

do you think we’d know each other
were it not for us knowing each other somewhat?

When you are gone
I’ll ask why I wrote a poem instead of calling tonight