Shadow Stories.

Come lay with me and our hands will sing praises and the heat of our mouth a chorus of hallelujahs.

Speak to me with your body and our wordless exclamations will speak volumes to the ghosts whispering in the shadows.

I want to be a novel read aloud by you, spine broken, my hair dog-eared beneath my head.

My brain doesn’t translate the ongoing monologue to my mouth as it does for my hands. 

In order to hear me you’ll need to read this great adventure in the crinkle of my laugh lines, the sneaky dimple on my left cheek, the backroads of stretch marks tracing across my hips and stomach telling tales of more than two dozen months of building my children brick by brick inside of my body.

With the flesh of your chest pressed against mine, our hearts will pass sob stories between them of our near undoings and confess their sins to one another.

Speak to me with your body as it’s the most fluent language I can understand beyond the written word.

Wipe my tears with your thumbs and lips before they pool hot into my ears; reassuring me of your inability to just walk away.

Take my hands and run them down your body like Braille.

Speak softly, slowly, directly and use these words to tell me what you want, need.

I’ll lay beside you until the words come like a slow dance between us and we can move together in sync to music only we know the lyrics to.