When I was twelve, I lost the gift of language. Eddies swirled from my mouth; letters floundered in kisses, lips shaking like rose-petals. I waited for you to press your lips to my petals, to ignite me with the kiss of language - the breath of life.
I grew cruel beneath your fingers: Secrets seeped out of my flesh like lies.
I grew ugly in your eyes - you no longer delighted in kissing my neck, and stopped bending over to stroke my collar-bone on your way to the kitchen.
Lies shrouded my arms upon your arms; our bodies were bathed in white linen. The moon traced flowers of light across your back. I outlined the flowers with my fingers.
Alone, in a room full of morning, I traced your body's print upon my pillows. Once more bereft of words, I summoned salt, and pleaded with my tears.
Did you know that silence thunders in the sunlight? Or that a body's absence can be felt by the flesh, like the kiss of a lover?
When I was twelve, I lost the gift of language. Eddies swirled from my
mouth; letters floundered in kisses, lips shaking like rose-petals. I
waited for you to press your lips to my petals, to ignite me with the
kiss of language - the breath of life.
I am still waiting.
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