This House

This house is empty and echoes remain

unplugged

It snuck up on me,
that lyrical twisting and entwining and somersaulting
Suddenly it was poetic
and I admit, abashedly, that I was not thinking about your lips
for a moment
I was forming rhymes and thinking in another language
I was seeing wildflowers and exploring treehouses and wondering
at the beauty
of a honey bee
you stole away my fear (took it from my slippery sweating palms and hid it away I mean)
and exchanged my breath for imaginings of...of...well
I guess these things have no words to them
except
the simplest of language, as in
the THU-DUNK THU-DUNK of a heart (anybody who's ever felt it knows it's more than a THUD)
or a tingling toe
or the gaaaaaasp of escaping oxygen the moment before audible laughter begins
or a flight of butterflies as they migrate
s
o
u
t
h