Story Teller — a poem

I’m reading you like stories.
Each word becomes a path
Becomes a well
A deep, dark, endless night.
And every question I throw
Is a torch, lamp, flare — if you like,
Making ripples touch
Where your lips usually do.
So tell me some tales
About memories that lived once
Dancing jigs on your face.
Truths and chiselled truths
Flowing from your thumbs,
Whistling from your mouth
Open to interpretation.
As my brain welcomes them, willingly.
And I’ll feel each feeling
Wincing, at times
Wondering if your memories
Still live on as real life.
Seeing the times, here and there
Where it’s too hard to be
So raw, so you soften them
While I wonder, in my stomach
If they’re simply part of
Of the lake of who you are
So there’s still space for me
To swim.