becoming

“We tell ourselves stories in order to live.”

― Joan Didion, The White Album

And I got it from our prompt over at the imaginary garden with real toads.

 "becoming"

Whisper me your words;

I'll draw them in like silken strings

and wrap them like a fist.

Once to hear you.

Twice to feed you.

Four to see you, again

in my shining eyes. 

Tell me your tales;

I'll take your story for a spin 

and try it on for size.

Once to hear you.

Twice to feed you.

Four to see you, again

in my dying eyes.

Sing me your serenades;

I'll feel them flutter down my throat

and swallow them: whole.

~~~

There's a good chance I'll regret this in the morning. "This" being: publishing the above poem before looking at it with clearer eyes. Meh. Whatevs. That there's a first draft crafted by a sleepy brain that just wants to lay in bed and listen to music. But also write stuff. Mission (mostly) accomplished. Nighty night y'all.