on this word I would not utter

I cannot run my tongue along the ragged edges of its significance—this is a word that cuts. This is a word we blot the moon out with more blood than I could hold with cupped hands. It’s slight enough to slip into a thrice-folded note, but not to glide into the space between I and You, where it would only be intrusion, encumbrance—a stone breaking windowpane, tearing the layered silence and sidelong glances in dark hours reined into your sitting room, where I trace letters on the wall with my finger in place of the question I do not ask you. Here I part my lips for your glass of wine and hide this word in the cellar of my throat, waiting for green light to leak out of your veiled eyes or seep from the corners of your craved, craven mouth.


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