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.
Aug 22, 2012
Aug 22, 2012 at 10:01 PM UTC
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.
