Often I just want your earlobe in my mouth.
It could be a sign of listening or
a symptom of stealing everyone else
to bundle in my throat and sing their songs.

If I could speak without my native tongue,
talk in flawless Romanian
I would tell stories of blue graveyards,
haystacks and severe pine forests,
extreme in their size.

I would move my tongue in large circles
on the roof of my mouth. Exclaim
with no reticence the exact details.

It means I cannot speak
without the ghost of something further
dancing down my throat. It means
I cannot delete the space between sense
and sentence. Or it means the night

my voice came to me, I whipped it
with ash twigs and sent it away,
crying. And now it never
answers my letters.