Babbling.

I often wished for
more of your silence,
thinking it far better
than the verbal knives
you'd throw.
When you were sober,
you were most dangerous.

Now, I question why you
wouldn't give me a rope
to gnaw on,
so I could see you
trying to anchor me.

If only I could lean on
your stony shoulders,
brooks gushing out
of our mouths,
flinging rocks easily
across the deepest,
most problematic
waters.