If I called you by your name, would you answer in the same way, an uptilt to your voice as you say ‘yes, sweetheart?’
If I open my heart, when I’m scared, when it’s dark, and I can’t hide from my own imperfections, will there still be tea in the morning? When the morning comes, will we greet each other as friends, though my eyes have dark circles, and my back is bent?
If I waited for the scent of salt on your skin, touched you where it’s thin and tasted your neck, before dipping in, would you still tell me about the girl who cried rabbit in the night?
If I speak words that are abstract, words you don’t understand, will you try to grasp a sliver of their meaning? Or will they slip through your fingers, too? They were busy playing someone else’s strings, first? They were easier, after all.
If I called your name, I would have to admit, after all these years, it would still taste the same if the sound ever left my mind to reverberate across the skin of my lips.
