The Resounding Poem by Indigo Hawkins

lacking context I
made myself a fool, fumbled
with the words: my throat
clogged by convention, unwilling to reform
mine. superior, as all fools
must be. Now I utter his secrets in my voice,
hear his murmurs in my home, envision his lips
as they sculpt vowels, warped to (by) me, harr-shh
but muted, morphing into
a figment
I am able to rediscover as my own only by
discarding his, the elemental, the fluent
coastal fog
that I choke upon: moist air
all animas must swallow to coexist, but it is
his air,
his breath, and my lungs rejected it, yet
somehow his berth arrogated my heart.
in a thicket of dense echoes, siphoning prose
outward, into my limbs, I still
scrounge for it: the aspect of insight
so casually dismissed.