There were words wilting on his tongue
and I could smell them from across
the bed, between the sheets —
wrapping his vowels between my thighs
and smoldering in every consonant.
I could not breathe for I was gulping
every muted word, thought, image;
his choking lips depicting dying needs.

And I began to soak the mattress,
screaming into pillows while the sun
set between our waists —
darkening my curves and shading his face.

I no longer smelled him in the quiet,
no longer reached for static.

                     Instead I kneaded his language
             into my taste; until I spoke
         for him.