What I Want to Say by Samuel Salerno

Why are the things that need to be said so often out of our reach-- An unsalted soup to my lips; the air that weaves past me on long runs; or the emptiness of a full glass of wine-- The bird's wing I cannot touch. Why do we look for the things that don't want us-- As if in their having we could bury our grief. Finding is losing-- Loss is a warm flame we can hold our hands to.

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