Tale-tell Quiets

Quiet.
There are wraiths inside this atmosphere
and you keep swallowing them down.
He asks you what you are thinking
you say birthmarks
you say tunnel vision,
you say powerlines in drowned river valleys
oceans turned lake when landslides converged.
You say faith
you say hope
you say your name doesn’t know how to fit
into either of those.
You say tempestuous walls
and roads
and cracks in all of your bones.
Quiet.
There are hymns you’ve yet to learn
singing around four empty chairs at a dining room table.
He says let me learn you
and you give him your wrists
your elbows
your ankles.
You give him points
and angles
and sharp sharp sharp memories,
but he only wants your lips
your soft
your malleable.
Quiet.
There are mercurial affections spilling from his mouth,
and you are decided tale-tells
that is tired of returning to an empty house.