Morse Code (napowrimo #18)

 
I don't care to calculate possibilities
despite the precision of mathematics.
They're endless with a 99% chance
of failing. Look, words are too thick,
sticky sap in the trunk of my throat.

You can claw like a bear shredding
a hive of sugar, but, they’ll be bloody
bits of bark and stinger’d carcass to
swallow. You’ll bleed from splinters
and blame me for not offering freely.

I have no instruction manual to reference,
and it doesn't come naturally. You won't
understand the syntax when sound surfs
my breath; I’m choking on the spit unable
to divide syllables into needed tenderness.

The sound will sour like milk in the fridge;
my limbs will snap at the slightest weight.
I'll fail your expectations as the perfect
filter between loneliness and grief. You’ll
blame me for not bending to circumstance.

When it comes to direction, I haven’t the
sense. I need both light and shadow to exist.
You’re intelligent; figure it out. Circumference
is circular, doubting the timing shatters routine;
it doesn’t conform to evolutionary change.
.
Yet, despite our many lives, I’ve loved you
by signaling light instead. Dashing and dotting
the long and short of it. I am endless centuries
between our human experiences, transmitting
poetry made possible by patience and belief.

Your memory knows the Morse Code of me.
I follow my blueprint and trust you receive.
~