I could talk you to death, I suppose.
I could if you were interested, but
there would be rambling and moments
in which I rant.
I would possibly stop intermittently to
have a bite or two of sole and asparagus,
then there would inherently be the noise
of dishes placed in the drying rack.
So what I’m saying is, it wouldn’t entirely
be my words talking you into heaven. The
essence of my life would hang in the air.
And I would come to love you for listening
to me and hate to see you go as though it
might not be a criminal act I was perpetrating
asking you over and over what you wanted for
dinner but the act of loving you desperately.