Mouth of Honey
It is not for me to hear your speeches. Your voice holds a magic to it — a trick that I have grown to fear. When you speak to me in the gardens, I can only ask you not to continue. And in the lush, I can never explain that it is not because I hate you — it is because you have a mouth of honey.
You’ve pollinated my garden and brought something new.
Each sweet syllable that slips from your lips. Every tender thought that travels off your tongue. They do me no good thing. My heart forgets its rhythm, my brain loses function, my lungs grow foreign to oxygen. I feel as unnatural when you speak as man can be when surrounded by green grass, soft daffodils, and the morning songs of birds.
But worst of all is the feeling when you stop.
I crave the honey that comes from your tongue, each sweet sound that’s seeped in serenity. You continue your day as if you had done nothing — and nothing you had indeed done. And in doing so, you left me with the buzzing that often follows silence. An emptiness as vast as this garden I’ve labored in. And like my gated grow, that dreariness you gifted me is packed full of life.
And still I say, keep your sound from me.
I need not nectar of amber and gold. I’m tempted by your honey, but I know better than to eat from its stock. Because when I taste your sweet syrup soaking my ears, I can do nothing but dream of hives that are not mine. Reach for skies that were never for my hands.
And yet I still chase it.
