Our silence is comfortable,
warm,
the air perfumed with fever,
the mess after the storm.
Tracing roadways down your ribs,
eager, snaking down your stomach.
Quiet.
Words are worthless
in the midst of meaning.
You smell like rain
the thick, weighty kind;
your hair smells like pines.
Dreams, flint and spark,
strip and match, in your eyes.
And I am your kerosene.
My head,
it fills with your hot breath;
it settles like a morning dew.
Your legs and fingers tangle mine.
Quiet.
Words are worthless...
Life transcends the rational,
the clean.
I trace the peaks on your lips,
mountains to scale,
heights to claim.
The syllables, vowels,
your name in my mouth
I explore with my tongue,
learn the shape and texture:
ll ll ll
flicking against the roof of my mouth.
You taste like mints and
sweat.
My body, my life, my hopes.
What's mine is yours,
what's yours is mine.
You trace my defining lines:
my waist, the lids of my eyes,
counting the lashes one by one.
You tuck my hair behind my ear,
brush my cheek.
Quiet.
I've misplaced words to speak.
How might I describe this moment?
I'm silent, and I'm closer there
to understanding;
to sharing myself
clearly,
rationally.
(The calm before the flame.)
The air is thick and fragrant,
and I suck you in,
greedy, to my lungs.
Here you are the closest to understanding me
where the definitions blur.
Quiet.
The hushed voice of your impatient dreams--
of flint and spark,
strip and match
and I am your kerosene.
