Your words are few and far between.
I wait on them like a child on Christmas,
Eager for the scent of morning.
I unwrap them cautiously,
Deciphering every possible meaning
Lying silently within each white space.
The blackness of the letters grows fuzzy
With each individual, continual rereading,
Desperate to make something of their
Overwhelmingly deep hue.
I fear your words.
What they express,
What they don't,
What they never will.
I wait on them with high hopes.
I am always disappointed.
Satisfaction is synonymous with
Impossibility, you with inconsistency.
Disappointed,
I sigh,
Reexamining your most recent
Bit of conversation,
Slicing it into infinitesimally small pieces,
Evaluating every spoken word with hideous, utter confusion.
I close my eyes,
Picture your face.
The words spill carelessly from your complacent mouth,
Crashing into my ears
Like an inebriated fool's car
In the late night.
I am captivated by their unwillingness.
Infatuated with their pettiness.
Overwhelmed by their brilliance.

I feign deafness
As I lie beside you
Feeling your breath upon my cheek.
'I love you,' you whisper carelessly.
I stifle your flowing mouth with a kiss.

Your words may be small
But they are mine.