by aldo amparan
Decay always starts in our mouths,
never mind the words they spew in spasms;
things like You are perfect or Be with me
or I love you.
When you dream, your throat
makes amusing noises. I can constantly
stay up listening to their perfunctory spurs,
and your mouth is always open.
teeth are brilliant in the dark.
When Iâ€™m close enough,
I can smell licorice inside you
re your delusions, aspirations, lust,
humanity, nakedness. I hate licorice,
so I often keep my distance.
In the morning you kiss me. I can taste
the bitterness of rot in your mouth,
and I outline the shape of your teeth
with my tongue, revealing craters
where words you meant to say
are hopefully hiding.
Iâ€™ll spend the rest of the day
trying to decipher their fucked up meaning.
Sometimes I want to smash your teeth in,
break them with fists or hammers,
because I find no meaning. And then Iâ€™d kiss
the smooth, spongy gash that your mouth became,
attempting to make things right again.
But Iâ€™m too soft
for violent revelations.
This morning I want a taste
of your imperfect smile, but your
side of the bed is empty.