It is with your teeth that I taste the words.
The burst porchlight assembles all across the yard, and unwary feet contract slivers of silica for maybe weeks. Nobody is opposite her name, and she does not move her mouth when it encircles nor glass her eyes when they ruin, despite resemblance to coffee shop compost or glossy magazine wrapper. Yesterday, I rubbed the shards in on purpose, enjoyed the rough sense to consign, mandibles fully wet, stuffed flora along an imaginary x-axis that surrounded the sea and its horses, and whispered toward her something sardonically invented for such rainy days.
Kairos, when we are nimbling on string, she tells me that once her father was scientists who languished, that there were architects clambering internal to slip off loose dress, whole jellyfish flapping like stoplights deep. I must unkiss her fleshy brittle to feel whole. I mean, words are not sensations, and we adrift bits of mire per instant.
I, swallowing too many pills on blue mirrorglass lonely, mitigating selfish color preference, start hoping to death that she furls prone in whose earthy sweater, quietly shivering to some chewy shared recall, eyes glazed cloven, lips angular, trembling, precise, searching for when Christmas trees shepherded absent calendar and furniture, fingers writhing across pale fabric until a sodden hushed collapse.
Your eyes are stars, I say in a Victorian Soda Shoppe in Columbus, Indiana. She, garden tissue exposed, spouts, no longer melting hearts, my own as glass drawn ice?
Tomorrow, through the fluidity of glial grey membrane, I inform her my discern, the rules of seafoam chess for sloppy cog hours. Messy flower beds later, we teeter on the max lange attack, protein seed and ruptured milk seeping from barren etches. There is a permanent key hidden somewhere underside arms, but instead we confer on how the granules of sand might or the dead organism in earth full on earthworm memories about us fucking in present tense. This is not language. We could not write “love”.