I invite you into my words. My words aren’t me, your words aren’t you, but this is the only type of intimacy I understand. When I attend, I’m the tip of your tongue tapping your teeth while your larynx does or doesn’t vibrate, your nasal passage gets selfish with an exhale, and I hum satisfaction.
Phonology is a digression. I want my attention on your lips, kissing marginalia. My body is old forms of poetry. A rondeau, a villanelle, an occasion for sonnets. I’ll pattern myself in meter, rhyme, repetition; you bring fresh metaphors for the skin on my wrist.