Here is unshaped breath. Can I rename this sleeping air? This sound is an ocean, older than voice. It still hisses from unsophisticated throats. You mistake my interest in phonetics. Be still and I’ll lick the turmoil from your lips. An aspirated phoneme isn’t enough to prepare me for success. It isn’t enough to decide I’m worth loving. It isn’t enough to build a tower of ways to make you smile. But let it introduce me to laughter, all our exhales of infatuation. If you can be a half-heard whisper, I’ll leave nothing under my tongue. What do I call a hunger for your throat if I want to leave you undevoured? There are so many ways to rest against your larynx. None of them begin with H.
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