Everytime you say you love me,
I want to catch the words in my mouth
and stuff them into my cheeks.
I want to keep them there
until I can find someplace to hide them:
a mason jar, a hollow tree,
the dusty corner of the attic
behind the dresser your mother
said came from Antigua,
the one we have not opened in years,
where no one else will find them.
I want to do this so I can make sure
I will have enough of your love to get by
if you decide to stop saying it.