untitled-09
something stupid I wrote after spending the previous day with her
it is our tongues that are speaking: dividing the ill-fated owners of silence into little refugees that grow on the edges of our hemmed throat, the way the black spots of the sun dress like desolate birds, the way familiarity caves into our knees, slowly we bend, slowly we learn, a sound, a whimper, a sentence, give me your tongue (this is a command), and I grip your mouth like an exiled moth, and the one who couldn’t stand it anymore, the one who begged for silence was set on fire.