This, a pain when we touch, when we crush between our sticky fingers all that we've done : it smells of a fruit no one has a name for. We have no name for. In the mornings we carry the succor in the backs of our mouths, safe for later. We talk to the sky in made-up tongues. In made-up tongues we rabble and gobble and hunt each other for the right words: to glut, to skewer, to fuck. We know the names we call each other but no one else does. The pulp between us: silken, seeded, suited. We warble together to hear our choked songs when we forget how to speak.
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