My ears are starving.
They want the dark bread
of your words. They want
the wine of your truest thoughts.
Instead I feed myself songs
of angels singing in languages
I do not understand.
But even I can hear
that the angels speak
devotion and longing
and praise and love. I am
famished for your voice,
and not just patter
about the weather. I want
to hear the voice inside your voice.
I want to hear all the news in your heart,
and all the fine print,
and all the inside jokes.
I know that some of your words
will be more like brine.
I know, and I do not know.
I say I want it and then
I am afraid when you come to me,
mouth open. It is easier,
perhaps to want, though
the angels are quiet now,
leaning in to better hear
what comes next.