Truth Is

Truth is,
your voice
is one that I’d
savor the flavor of;
taste the vintage
in your alto
like Southern hymns
humming harmonies,
dividing me
into a quartet
bent on being
the soundtrack of our future
to suture
the dissonant rhythms
of our pasts.

Truth is,
your frequency
stations me deep
into your decibels of eloquence.
I’m a decimal
in every sense around you
when my eardrums crave
to surround sound you;
leave me in the wake
of your hearts’ whisper
to tether
what our lips
fear to admit.

Truth is,
I’ve heard the myths,
the rumor of your gift
you keep wrapped
within your voice box
like an unsuspecting present
in my presence.
This is not to say
you sing angelically,
but I can’t imagine it being
too far from the truth
when I feel my heart
applauds for you;
every time you speak,
my pulse
gives a standing ovation
and I wish,
my hands
could summon the right dialect
to engage you,
past reciprocal blushes
and almost conversations,
past the absent sensation
of divorced vocal chords
wanting to make amends in vain.

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4 thoughts on “Truth Is

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