Speak To Me

Speak To Me

I hear what you say peripherally as you smile, touch
my arm, blush, and it's not so much what you say
as it is the nature of the flirt. I find myself nodding
at you, you with the mocha eyes, and jet black hair,
you with the effervescent charm, the kind smile,
whispering raspberry kisses.

I think of our first date, how knee knocking nervous
I was, how the conversation felt forced, my inner critic
seeking to nullify this connection. I remember
you asking if I was as nervous as you were, and I relaxed,
and melted a little as our minds melded, stopping
time for just a fraction. I can smell your toffee whispers
from that night, and I accidentally leaned against
the inside gate, ringing apartments 10 and 12 by mistake,
how my neighbor called out “who's ringing the bell”,
as we both hid in shadow and giggled, full of warmth,
full of connection.

So here we are again, and you are talking, and the words
don't matter, but they do, but they don't. You are
the ultimate poem. Your words have a rhythm in time
and space that speak to all parts of me, from within
and out.

Speak to me. Keep talking and cooing, Speak to me.
I will smile and hopefully you will melt, as our arms
brush against each other, and I will shiver
ever so slightly. Speak to me. Speak to me.
Speak only to me.