There’s nothing there
on the tip of my tongue
except soft flesh
I’ve explored before.
My skull though: a dam.
Pebble and sand
words worn smooth
on the bone.
Lower. My breastbone;
heartthings grow.
In that cuttlebone
alone: a turbine,
and my ribs, only exist
as beams of wild light;
backstays; burst fierce
from the core.
I will the dam a weak spot;
fissure and fracture from here
on your cheek
where I rest it. Break!
But words only dissolve in the slipway,
or rattle hollow
amongst our teeth.
Perhaps one or two make it through -
do they? I’ll send them direct.
Shift higher in bed,
to press my forehead to yours,
tell you this:
“I’m sending you messages this way”.
My bones are telling you soft words
too hard for my mouth to say.