la lingua

drifting in and out of consciousness, i fight sleep and think about the wide, purple doorway you stood in, all black silhouette and lean arms. my breathing is regular, but my mind feels like static and white-noise, so i try to appease it by thinking of words i like: anaphora; synesthesia; incandescent; phosphorus. i am suddenly aware of my tongue, stubborn and flat in my mouth, and i imagine rolling the words around, sounds flowing like water from the space between the back of my teeth and the tip of my tongue, a stark contrast to the sheets now twisted around my feet and ankles. language makes the thoughts spill forth now, no longer restrained by the chore of clock-watching: the wanderer journeying across the sea in search of a lord; the melodic sound of arcane words escaping gracefully from your small, pink lips; soft, round hips wrapped in black fabric that hugs a world of cold shadows and hot, sweet sweat you've never revealed to anyone. and i wonder if people look at you and realize that what stands before them is energy in its purest form - potential that has culminated into a ravishing brilliance, a mind that lies unassuming behind your green eyes. your laugh crosses my mind and i smile, content to just relax and let sleep come, grateful that i have the privilege of knowing you.