Ask It

Ask it by C. L. Higgins Ask if you have my heart one last time and I might say yes in a manner of speaking. Love’s fatal flaw is having to hear it said aloud. Having to make words form around impulse and bloodheat and the next chance encounter. The next dewars-and-water-logged latenight hot tub where words slip off tongues easily as the glass of ice from the edge of the tub. Words damp between the sheets, words splashed on shower tiles and condensed on oak bedside tables, words like stumbled-over dreams in the early morning hours. Ask one more time if I remember saying the words you took how many months to get from me my eyes closed, the bed dry as any other dawn.