Sic
Love is a syndrome.
We cannot reason cause or crux.
We can only describe symptoms.
I taste your fluid’s slow boil
when I jangle the subway,
when I sit with the ocean,
when I swallow the waves.
Our faces catch mine sometimes
in all the reflective surfaces of nights and days.
Lolling-tongued hermit and grinning sideshow bastard.
I laugh at our absurd ability to move and cover
my mouth. One shoulder meets one head.
There are words for this –
A stomach ache, the sound of dumptrucks,
sleepless four AMs beside your breathing.
We know these words.
They are all we have ever wanted
to have voices for.
Our salts escape across each other
in so many different ways.
When coming from the eyes,
we hold each other by the faces
and draw out words for fear.
That I could change away from you
in hungry spasms, a new name,
a voice and character to each bedroom.
That we the same content may slacken
in dull haven, two tired skulls and skins
hoisting each night identical beside.
Naked under sheets, we are so close
we breathe with each others throats.
There are words for this.
We know them. We say, I hope not.
I don’t think so. I don’t want to.
Admitting that even our selves
are mysteries subject to influences,
billions, subtle, unnamed,
so coldly out of our control.
We have touch, scent, hearing, seeing.
How the sting of your salt
tastes like no other carbon.
One mouth meets one mouth.
One mouth meets one mouth.
One mouth meets one mouth.
There is a word for this.
It is sometimes a symptom of love.
The desire to press my head so far into
your chest I can kiss your lungs –
where is the word for that?
Did we lose it like all the other important things
when we bartered with the stars for reason.
- Jade Sylvan
