My heart is smitten, and withered like grass;
    so that I forget to eat my bread.
         Psalms 102:4

Voices are so primal.
They have their own opinions to feed,
their own stomachs, their own caves to echo their egos.
They seem to know a lot about everything.
Today, nothing seemed right,
as we watched our voices separate from our bodies
while we sat, sipping our fire like tea.
We watched our voices hover over the room,
and clash through tongues and smoke
then later retreat into something pink.
When our voices returned to us,
our bodies had already distanced themselves

like sound pulled by a lollipop and its want to return to lips,
for its sweet and separation, sweet, and separation.
When I’m near you, sound flows out of my body.
Come back to me dear – so I may hear again.