A Beauty in the Dark Soon Becomes Relentless, Wordless

i.

When I render that “I’ve run out of words” what I’m really saying is that I have nothing left in me but the feeling consuming, making full my inside.

ii.

I’m telling that there are no linguistic gymnastics my tongue can perform to speak sense of this.  I’m trying to get you to understand that you have somehow, against my good sense, seeped through my skin and you’re steadily creeping into me.  You’re jostling feelings that appear as goose pimples.

iii.

Breath-taken.  Unrestrained.  That is what I mean when I say, “I’ve run out of words.”

iv.

I put the sentence out there, bitterly hoping that you read intention into it yet crossing my fingers that you don’t see it at all.  I’m afraid of my suspicions.  I shut up.  Don’t affirm the insinuations.

v.

My mind is heavy with all that I long to say but my mouth bears a hollow vessel.  Stuck to the back of teeth – are thoughts not quite ready to face the world, therefore “I've run out of words.”

vi.

Feelings happen quickly, uninvited and unintentional.  Reciprocity needs mending, unbinding and understanding.  Two parts, one whole, three stories, four heartbreaks, five sleeplessness nights, on count six I’ve suddenly had enough.  I’m going to scrub my flesh clean of you.  I don’t desire to become familiar with seven, eight, nine, eleven because they might never come alone.  Bringing with them more numbers that would eventually add to more chaos and before long we would have lost count of the madness and no method would bring it to a sum.  “I've run out of words.”

vii.

See, my state of mind in this welcomed affliction is that your mind is out there and not consumed with enough thoughts of me.  That it’s reaching for heights more ambitious than what I have on offer.  That your head is free from the toil to forget my name, my face, my words, my intrigue.  That your own name is wandering in somebody else’s head, and they’re happy about it.  Whereas I?  I am nothing but a consumed fool whose flesh is crawling with a developing sentiment for you.  It’s all underneath my skin.  And it’s beginning to show to the world.  And my mouth won’t allow me to speak because my words are clutching onto the back of teeth that will soon start bearing scars plastered there by kisses that are meant for only another and we’re losing our sense of math and order and this entire sentence is becoming too long and unbearable, and… Maybe, I've already said too much.  Sigh.  Sob.  Sing.

viii.

I know that I've leapt and admitted to all this but there’s something crazier yet: I'm willing to risk this dialogue.  Things take crazy shape in the dark; silhouettes that would speak but can’t.  I prefer not having your lips find mine when there’s no light for us to bask under.  The dark equates to crazy shapes and stories that would not break.  I'm frightened by the dark.  It’s ugly and aggressive.

ix.

“I’ve run out of words,” will repeatedly appear to me in song sung in nightmares for as long as we allow this.  Its ugly would take shape that no dance could make beautiful.