This Is Not The Time

I am grit under fingernails.
You are tensed hands, palsied, desperate;
digging as if this earth held secrets.
As if the moist scent of this soil could sustain your soul.

I am sweat dripping
down the side of your cheek.
You are eyes, squinting with a sparkle
as if beauty the sun revealed too much.

I am the words that won't come when face-to-face with uncertainty, or when in love.
You are the shiver of pleasure when coming out of minor key.
If you cry out loud enough, I become each shaky sustained beat.
You belong with me.

You are fresh strings stretched across an instrument.
Ready for the first harmony.
I am the wicked twang of you snapping at me.
You are presence in a warm room.
I am cold awkward silence.
You are words; stories and poetry.
I am an empty page.
You belong with me.

- Daryl Goh