You ask me to talk
of life,
of love,
of memory.
I stand there numb,
your memories on my tongue
which I know more than my own.

What do I say of me?
Of what I wanted and resigned to never getting,
Of what I wanted, got and resigned to never wanting again.
Of the bards who sense my soul
who sing to me the songs of my soul
because I'm incapable of listening to her myself?

What do I say of you?
Of why you're probably me
and why you're probably not?
Can I explain why you touched me
before we even met?
Why I drowned in your words
before we even spoke.
Of how I was far from myself
and you spoke to me anyway.
You relentless talker.
You keep talking

What do I say
of grains of sand that slip away
before I can feel the tiny roughness
of a single one?
If I felt it I don't remember how it feels.

What do I say of
grains of salt
long concealed in pickle jars?
My mind is too clouded by the spice
to note its flavour.
If I tasted it, only a faint sweet memory
of how bland saltless rice tastes

You ask me to talk
of life,
of love,
of memories.
I float unfettered and whole,
in all that is you.