Translator

I want to translate you into something solid. I want to cup your face in my hands, but you are water flowing through my fingers. You are darkness rippling under a bridge. 

I want a pumpkin seed, an apple. I want to taste you in my mouth, feel you slide down my throat. I want to be full of you. I want to be a womb that gives you new life.

The you in the box on the table is not the you I remember. I want to hold you, but you are a pile of ash and bone flowing through my fingers. 

You are not solid. You are a river of words I cannot touch, smell, or hear. 

You are words I cannot translate.

published in Imogene's Notebook