When I talk to you, you listen and
sometimes bow your head a little,
an enviably- heavy lock of golden-brown
hair falling forward to shade your eyes.
When I talk to you, I imagine
you hearing me, letting my words
tumble over you like a freshet, as if
you are a lichen-covered stone.
When I talk to you, you hold me
in your burning gaze, pupils dilated
in concentration, a smile trembling,
sometimes, at the corners of your mouth.
When I talk to you, I am handing you
my Faberge egg, a Lalique crystal flute,
one perfect Robin's egg shell, and I know
they are safe from harm, because
when I talk to you, you are not there at all.
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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