When I said your name, I made it obscene. Your beautiful name, the name that sounds like cool water, was a curse in my mouth. I meant to say it like light on the edges of clouds, but it came out filthy. Believe me I thought about it. I thought about it, and I decided I would never say your name again. But I couldn’t do it. Because the time you said my name, you made it sound like it never sounded before. You made it sound like the day the azaleas bloom. After the rain, when the colors are so bright, and the birds fly in and out of the bushes, that’s what you called me. So here I am, putting the perfect word in [bad word] can to drag behind me. I rattle and clang, and even whisper when I have to, just hoping you’ll say it again. 

 I know the curtain was torn 
 but there is still 
 this veil 
 of skin 
 and bone 
 that divides 
 you and me