Yellow Words

Dissonance rang through the summer.
Every night I slipped
farther under the sheets. The heat
wisped, blushed until it split
a crack in the sky. I forgot
all the French I had learned
that year, the lyrics
to waltzes I had known
in December. The water
from the showerhead washed
away all the molding, yellow
words. They took a sharp turn
toward the drain. I teased
myself until I couldn’t remember
what he had said when the tree
roots were weak - his words
decayed, too; I felt them dying
down into my subconscious.
I couldn’t speak, I muted
all my lessons.