everything hard-kept in the heart is falling onto paper. each word so well-fought to be kept within the chest becomes a snowflake from november skies, but the winds are unseasonably warm and a fire is kindled inside each bone in place of a bitter chill.
there are ten thousand things i can never tell you.
the way that wars are fought, i wage battles among my selves to keep the quiet. you will never hear my voice, too soft like the pillow beneath your head each time our bodies find each other, say how my breath becomes a porch swing when we touch and i sway.
i can never call you by any name, given at birth or given by heart. you will never see my cheeks flush fires when asked what you are called, or feel the tremulous tunnels i do as your mouth twists into the shapes of words like "beautiful," or "babe."
i cannot tell you of the poems i write to keep my lips locked tightly; not even a winter wind can howl through its denseness, not even the chimneys stoked to keep the chills at bay. you will never know the honesty in my eyes every time i see a man in a military uniform; you will never see the lack of control i wear on my face when i almost grasp the seriousness of having you; you will never feel the way i stiffen at the realisation that in the time period of too-soon, you will send me letters only sometimes.
before you leave, the solstice still a month from equinoctial turns, i will not tell you, but you must learn me. there are pages in the book of my body that i need for you to memorise. i have freckles in the place of words too difficult to find- they flower beneath your touch. beauty exists in the green of your eyes; the grass does not lift until you look upon it. i have feelings and warmth just buried beneath the cold; all you need to do is see.