Stop.
Now feel the tongue inside your mouth.
Notice the words forming between your teeth,
their texture, their colour,
where they come from.

Now look towards me
No, not at me
but at the air between our faces

Do you see it?
It wades there, suspended,
kneading the space, folding into itself
and waiting for us.

It arches its back as it’s ****** into you,
as it’s ****** into me.
It wants to be inside of us.

But be careful how you treat the air;
it likes to be inhaled slowly, deeply,
swim through your body, wrap around
your bones and lick the edges of your soul.

Do you feel it?

Do not trap the air at the back of your throat,
where it cannot dance, where it cannot give.
And do not bend it it ways it will not bend.  
Do not strangle it with your tongue and spit it out
tripping over itself.  The air does not take kindly to
such abuse so when that sharp lick of breath reaches me,
my veins, it will toss and turn in your leftover angst.

Caress the air, the little piece of sky before us,
massage its shaking limbs with your own,
let it travel up from the meat of your toes carrying
with it the scent of your blood.

I promise you, it will dance between the grace of your lips.

Or better yet,
let the air between us hang loosely in space
Let it settle like silent water;
unscathed, transparent,
so we can see eachother clearly.