all that is left unsaid
they kiss and i hear you
make a noise, not loud or obtrusive,
but i am listening, so i hear.
it emits from the back of your throat:
a meek, distinct tut.
i am listening in the car, on the way home,
when you say the film was great, apart from ‘that bit’.
i am quiet, my tongue held.
my tongue is so good at being held by now,
resting in the cradle of my gums
like a plump, sedate child.
a snake in the grass, spider under the cupboard.
i hold my tongue while you talk about the man
selling the perfume, while he stands a few metres away.
i hold it while you slip the word like an infection
around the sides of your mouth,
let it fall to the floor like spit.
i am all quiet, every atom of me.
my skin is shimmering, prudent and affable,
incognito in the streetlights that outstrip us
on the motorway.
my tongue is a doormat and
my gullet is the hallway to the storage space
where all my bite backs lie.
you taught me to fight for what i know to be right,
unless what i know did not come
from your mouth.
your mouth, faded noise in my ear
through the hushed dark,
a whisper at my shoulder blade in the airport,
the venom and lullabies, perfume and nightmares.
one day, though, my mouth will spring open,
and my tongue seize forth like a greyhound
from its gate, finishing first before anyone
even believed it was running.