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Art is a mutual friend

Yes, everyone’s a writer,
but whether the hand shows
the abuse of time
and has kissed its dexterity goodbye —
or the pen stumbles clumsily under the reign
of fingers that haven’t yet probed
rouge cheekbones and constellations —
it speaks its own language.

No one will ever match the honey
in the landscapes that evolve
behind her teeth.
Or the ash in his rhythm,
how he speaks of death like
a familiar peach tree.

Yes, everyone’s a writer,
but each tongue
tastes and tells differently.



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