speak to me

speak to me in moonlight
and in moonshine
and in bed; give me
a cataclysmic sentence,
all monosyllables and nonsense.
i want no sweet nothings from you; i want
everything you ever said
and ever thought better than to say
i want your verbal shades of gray;
i want too-pretty death by your too-pretty voice,
i want too-pretty life by your too-pretty lips,
i want long-abandoned, crashing bridges,
i want my skin to marry your fingertips.
i want to take you to the desert,
i want to tell you stories about apple juice and guns,
i want to kiss you like an arsonist,
i want to sing your hallelujah til my sacrilege drowns out the sun
in some divine lightning's apocalypse
and, in the pause, while the record skips,
just speak to me, in silence,
with your eyes and with your lips;
because you speak too much for words
with looks out to sea at the birds,
with mythic nights spent in orchards,
and you know that i was long ago convinced.