I know the shape of your face
so well, I could trace it onto
the arm of the sofa
the loose flour you left on the counter
the leg of my good jeans
I see the lines of you
and the directions they run
The frame that holds you –
an original
These contours cut
into my line of vision
when you aren’t around
to look at
My mouth is a treasure chest
a pit of language
my tongue stirs this cauldron
sounds swell
and drop out of my mouth
like heavy stones
each a swollen fruit
of differing flavours
too rich to swallow
puce
plump
pearl
colossal marbles clacking
against my palette
I savour all
sunk in the noise of it
and too drunk on sound
to climb out
ataraxicat 