within reach

there are only times
like these.

Times where we keep
our feelings at arm's-length distance, in spite
of our differing reach,

we know where those feelings are. They play
at our fingertips, lightly, so ready for each
of us,

if we
grab and stuff in our mouths,
so as to be ready to blurt and confess -

but having stepped once, we'd each want
to go too far, we'd want to get it all
said at once.

Which is just
what those feelings want,
so we'd reach and we'd grab
and we'd stuff, until gagged
and muffled, with chipmunk-cheeks,
we'd reach out for more, to see
how much left -

then we'd find

- we'd feel, there's too much.

Those feelings
we keep within fingertip-reach won't grow
any less, as we grasp, and we gasp
and we stuff, we will never
be able to get
them all in

from the lips,
to the mouth to the tip
of a tongue

where they'd always belong.

Not to speak, maybe not. Not as such,
just to be within reach,

for whatever we'd care
to let shine through the eyes, or
take on
unacknowledged in heart,
or mind, without whisper betraying mouth
to eggshell ear, and no one

to say that it's wrong.

Let's do it.
Let's grab all of them
to keep safe and inside, where they'll always be.
No more flitting at length in a distance of fingertips:
Grab and stuff, grab and stuff, get them in
and digest. Get them all inside,
where they'll always belong,

with a swallow that feels
like the end of a song