we language. we sex numb.
bodies shimmer wet prayers.
we unwrap our legs and the sky shares its face with a corner of the ceiling.
fan spins in the same direction after you leave – after everyone leaves,
clockwise and lonely.
our mouths wander roads upward, wet. tongues knife blades of spit – a moist scar.
dry riots are forbidden. deemed not a language.
we break bruises into white noise- take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you.
it becomes too much not to touch a body that leaks.
we leak a storm alive. we touch and wake up in the mouth of a dream.
we dream inside the other’s mouth and slip into a song.
You’re gorgeous but you can’t fly.
we dance. a fire races us home.
our bodies shimmer after silence replaces everything.
our legs unwrap and the sky becomes a yale lid across the eye. stars float above the film of our
below we took teeth from the mouth of our zippers and inserted inches of language
we are a language that dances when everyone is sleeping.
except God always sees us. falling in love, over and over again.