Listen. I can never be anyone’s home.
There is almost always too much growl.
Always too much room for ache,
not enough speak.
Listen. This is language
tucked under the tongue.
This is too many folds of skin
and not enough let me in.
See this: a forest in the core of the bones,
our winged truths trapped amid the overgrowth.
See this: chest brimming with ghosts.
Here is a question without the mark.
Here is me listening for the sound of want.
This is a hand with too much tremble,
too much shake,
and not enough mouth for saying,
Listen. How beautiful we’d sound
if you stay.