I stepped in through his ears, covered in hot mud and rolled off his tongue clean as a whistle. I was no longer a whisper, he uttered in a painted mirror. Scratching out two eyes that saw nothing but themselves. He came to wonder if there are ants in my stomach feeding an army off the peaches I couldn’t eat for six summers. Three winters with no springs yet, the snow up to my neck. My eyes spilt pearls like a Japanese ghost, onto the white cold he buried me in. and when that melts into the lush green we’ve yet to writhe on, I hope there are limbs left to entwine us, I hope there are streams made to wash us. My body unchilled is sight for him to absorb, and record and plan a trip. Diction may be a skill he knows that I have learned to be versed in, but no matter the assemblage of my alibis, he finds me guilty, so I choose to make quiet familiar, and comfortable and the stringy nerve endings I've grafted into his skin and his kiss when I love him, are threatened to be severed with scalding water, poured from the darkest kettle called doubt.