When you choose what you say and you speak less often,
Your words become like wax.
Not sticky, or slimy, or oily,
But as a hardened image
That takes time to articulate,
Can be slipped off your hand for later remembrance,
Retains most of the same feeling,
Isn’t as shaken over time.
The layers of the same, semi-indistinguishable emotion build up,
They cake over one another; they form a crust.
Something breaks, the entire glove cracks off,
And you pick up your pen,
And you feel something else,
And you start over.