mouths

Mouths
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.
Your crooked
teeth are brilliant in the dark.
When I’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.
I’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 I’d kiss
the smooth, spongy gash that your mouth became,
attempting to make things right again.
But I’m too soft
for violent revelations.
This morning I want a taste
of your imperfect smile, but your
side of the bed is empty.