My tongue’s loose slide would soon let slip this truth, bruised blue, behind these sentinel teeth. We meet. Touch. Fuck. We seldom speak much more than surface gloss-- from niceties to wordless heat, we move. With your hand warm on my neck, I swallow words thick with promise, glistening like larva trapped in tissue webs, my palate ridged as a whale's. Words grow pallid as mushrooms in the echoless dark, slick with the sweat of caves. I want to devour you, a carnal glide, deep as a worm, down, down, in my rich earth.