--Adam's Apple--

the voice box, as I see it,
is a slender twig layered
in soft green leaves. and
every spoken word is but
our breath stirring those
leaves to myriad sounds
of life.

why i cannot help call
upon autumn to my throat
is a questionable weakness.
I breathe in memories
seeking the feel of your name
on my lips and watch the
leaves drop. until the winds
become razors scraping my neck,
and I can no longer speak.
as if it were the hardest
thing to do. as if I had never
known senses in my tongue.

while love's being largely
addressed in songs and
charming verses, it is
too often what that
kills the voice.

- Sobhan