We never even kissed, or looked into each other's eyes,
Our lips just trespassed on those
Inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears,
Filled them with the private music of wicked words
Hers in many languages,
Mine in the off-color of my only tongue, until
As our tones shifted
And our consonants spun and squealed,
Rabbled faster, hesitated, raced harder
Syllables soon melting into groans or moans,
Finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words
Until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it,
Enjoying too much
The dark lane
Which we had suddenly stumbled upon
Prayed to, carved to, not a communication really,
But a channeling of
Our rumored desires,
Hers for all i know gone to black forests and wolves,
Mine banging back to the familiar form,
That great revenant mystery
I still could only hear the shape of
Which in spite of our separate lusts and individual prize,
Still
Continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones,
Our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn
Fueled by sound,
Hers screeching,
Mine...i didn't hear mine, only hers, probably counter-pointing mine
A high pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly,
To practically
A bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense anymore,
And suddenly no more curves either,
Just the straightaway
Too bad dark languages rarely survive...
Das nicht zu hause sein
