It was the way you said my name
like a whisper, a confession,
a need to reveal who I was,
chipping away at my identity through promise.
What power a name has, truly.
The ability to gain familiarity,
to speak in tongues more ancient,
ever-changing your meaning with tone.
I would go to bed, thinking your name,
and sometimes my mouth would move along, or my voice might catch the empty words, only darkness knew.
Sometimes I still say it to
feel the blood rush to my face,
the smile linger on my lips,
and the flow of electricity buzzing in my palms and in-between my fingers.