I have never felt broken glass
under my hands made of satin doves
have never felt the ax hack chirping for
blood clapping for elegant excess

what a mess
I'd rather drag it across your throat
than suffer one more wordy reproach

I have never felt a metaphor that meant anything at all
that reached across the page
and took hold of me
I have never felt a phrase
pressed to my lips like a man
that touches everything
inside instead of hiding behind
words meant to be what they aren't
you aren't a sunset or a thousand
you aren't my hands folded in satin
you aren't a dove made up of words
you aren't even the words themselves
pacing pages on bookshelves

you are not this page
nor the next
though your subject
shall be the text

you are