This.

This is how I sometimes tell it

you with your specific face

your unique eyebrows with that one arch

that slides over sarcasm

and your slim slip of a tongue

that runs over the long lines

you brain writes in its secret script

with a laugh and a lilt

you standing in the midst of this story

this every story

of every day

this once upon a time and yesterday

all tied up in ordinary twine

sometimes I tell it this way

with the long stretched form

blank and blurred

and all the thousand details crowding around

to give structure and definition

by cold marble and sunset rays

by a purse of silk not cotton

by the thousand faces around you

and it is one story

one day, one way

and it will never be again

but in the midst of it is anyone

with any face

with any grace

This is how I tell it sometimes

in a shout in a scream

in an avalanche of definitions

this is what I mean

In a whisper of a wail

in a long arching song

with the spine of a tale

This is how I

I tell you

what a thing I am

and who

and sometimes why.