Another poem for Kasi. What does this make? 12? *headdesk*

[lunesque]

The words are dying against my tongue.

They are stalling, halted in motion,
and the stutter-step sound of my breathing
has transformed into a trembling of my hands
and I can’t stop the smear of ink across the page.
(the dying words imprint themselves on the side of my hand
and I am reminded of insect remains
against the windshield.
Kamikaze divas
diving
dying
dead.)

The words are dying against my tongue.

They create pictures, yes, perhaps—
but they are faded like old 8 millimeter film
and they are not up to the task of filming
fiery sunsets sinking into darkening twilight horizons
to play on the theater screen of the mind.
They flicker like strobing lights in my brain
and I think I have been colorblind all along
(like older movies
of a golder time
I dream in monochrome.)

The words are dying against my tongue.

And I find myself reaching for their fading forms
even though they’ve gone before
but I’m frightened (for once, yes, really frightened
more frightened than with
heights
spiders
the dark.

For if the words are dying now
When will they fade altogether?)