I form words at the tip of my tongue
And store it at the back of my throat.
They chandelier-light hang there:
The white elephant in the room
Only I am ever keenly aware of.
My conversations tip-toe about its periphery
As I attempt to make sense out of its difficult pronunciation.
Even alone, I can’t seem to get it rolling off my tongue,
Can’t help but stutter
And stumble over its syllables
As if fumbling about without my glasses
Completely blind to evidence shoved into my face.
The room I remain in
Has no one to notice.
They’re all too busy staring at heels
Clacking against the floor,
Staring at ribbons and laces
And masks carefully curated for this sole purpose.
I wonder if you will look up
At chandelier words,
Acknowledge their existence,
Transport me back to better times
When hope was more than just a dream
In my spare time.