Tuesday, 9 September 2014


I bite his lip, he busts mine.

We don’t mean it: we are, together, too many teeth. Too many sharp kinetic wavelengths. What we are, we shouldn’t be allowed.

He’s on his back. I’m on his front, leaning down for the Hollywood close-up, when he twitches. He twitches like a heart monitor yelping “stat!” at the chest of a dying man. His broken tooth into my soft upper lip.

When the blood swells, both of us open our mouths wide.

He didn’t mean it. We are counting off all the things we didn’t mean. We didn’t mean any of it and we meant everything, all at once. I touch my finger to my lip. The blood mixing with my spit.

Everything is so new, so red and so shiny.

We pretend to be shocked, but we aren’t. Not really. I lick my lip with a wet tongue, because I am a sucker for a dramatic mug shot. “I can’t believe you did that,” I say, because this time around, I’m allowed.

I sit back on my heels. I probe my mouth with my tongue. I ooze.

He is flickering like a zoetrope between horror and giggles. He says, “I’m so sorry.” He is trapped in the moment after flinging the ming vase against the wall. Aghast at shards and spatters.

I bite my lip but it’s too late: I’m already laughing. We’re not surprised a bit; we know what caused the twitching. I meant it.

He catches my giggles and steps forward to join me in a place that is oozing and easy. A place where everything is allowed.

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