Listen to poem:
What the Mouth Remembers
You stood like dusk before me,
quiet and burning at the edges.
I knelt, not to worship —
but to listen
to the storm beneath your stillness.
And later, when you opened
like evening —
petal by pulse,
I came not to take
but to taste what you trust.
My lips learned your language
one slow syllable at a time,
your breath catching like candlelight
in a room forbidden to flame.
Thighs, hands,
gates, tides —
we offered our silence
in mirrored submission.
I stayed low,
beneath the spoken,
you leaned in,
past control —
we drank
from each other
until names unraveled
into salt and sky.
You shattered
not into pieces,
but into light,
and I carried you on my tongue
as you carried me on yours —
two mouths full of reverence,
two bodies fluent in hush.
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