every word wants to
pour forth like a revelation,
exultation of your soul.
but this pen,
this paper
knows me like i
know the back of your hand,
and i can't control
the cliches that drip from
my fingertips
onto this projected page.
if my skin was darker,
if my complexion held
the secrets of
complexity,
i might be a better woman
in those mocha
eyes of yours,
more worthy to receive
the gift of...the gift of
your language