there was the word, black upon the edge of my tongue and sweet to the point, as if by speaking i could remedy the extent of the problem, lick the salt from the wound of the page, sallow or spit the ***** out, feel your fingers hooked in the hair at the back of my neck as i allow poetry to tilt me back until i reach breaking point, just far enough so i can see your eyes. for there is nothing quite as pure as this, the pinch and the slide, the grab and the slap, the break and the crunch of the moment between my teeth as i recite each line of this moment, the sounds of the corners of my bones as they fuse together at the base of my spine, the soft whisper of a bite along the shadow of my neck as i arch to allow you easy, easy access. i am still listening, and whispering, and reciting the lines of this love as i go over the edge.