They say you have a magic tongue
that can weave the words
from your mouth into tapestries
laced with gold thread.
Curl the words into scented ringlets
formed by petals shining like
stars even in the sunlight.
I want to catch them and hold on to them
without any rearranging.
To soak myself in their perfection,
so I can keep them with me
when the magic turns dark
and the golden threads hard,
when you turn them to sharp steel.
They’re still your words with a kind of magic
twisted together by your tongue
but they have become
explosions of your anger and despair
but no longer falling
I’m going to catch them and hold them now
so that I can rearrange them
to what they were.
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