things I never said justwrite

I'm the one you throw back. I have seven hooks through my lip, dust on my teeth, and I'm waiting for the moment you touch me just before you let go. I've lived in this forest as long as it's grown. I've talked to more trees than people. On Tuesday evenings, I nap in pine needles and come to the door at dusk wearing a fir coat that smells of firewood. My hands and feet are warm. You have a song rising from your chest on each breath, and in this light, I think you're a cardinal, or maybe a crow bleeding from its beak. I used to have nightmares about teaching birds to talk. Now I am topless at a stranger's dinner table and have no voice to give anyone. You are whistling outside my window. The trees are scratching their knobby fingers across the panes and hissing whispers that sound like wind. I'm awake and searching for words. My bed is made of pine needles. My hair gathers around my eyes, the ends feathered. On a morning like this, I jumped into your hands, my mouth caught open, a paused vowel stuck beneath my tongue. If you would turn into a tree, I'd press my face against your trunk, your bark scraping my cheek, and say the things I never said. But you can't be a tree. You open your hands and let me go.