Mon coeur sur ma manche

Building...sandcastles in the sand...
(In the tea pot room.)

I keep forgetting how your words sound. Your words sound good in my mouth, in my lungs, in my organs of Corti (that doesn't seem so long ago, ago, ago, ...). Like the squelching of my new rubber boots in the puddles, or the squeals when I drive through them, or how I sound in my head, when I sing The Last Five Years. We're not fighting it, anymore, just kneading it out, just letting it go, like my hair, or your eyelashes, or the way those sit on my hips, your hands, I mean. My nails keep growing, and I keep forgetting how much I don't like them.
That's where I wear it- on my sleeve, everything's on the tip, tip, tip of my tongue, tongue, tongue, and it spills over- like the milk from the chai tea latte in progress this morning, like the tea dates, like "Did you get my text?" except it's not funny because you did, and I don't even care, and scarves, scarves, scarves, like my grandmother's.
I can't play my own Broadway music.
It doesn't sound right with the right hand notes all missing, or wrong.
Then it shouldn't make sense why I still love it so much.
Why I still love it all so much.
Or maybe it's just me (and you. Always you.)

And there are people who are not ever going to be let go.

Did it hurt, did you feel it? Of course you did. I felt it, too, like an earthquake interrupting that baby laughter. And it was good. And I wish I was better, at this, like you don't think you are. But you are. Do not eat the cats. Eat your vegetables instead,