I met her at a poetry reading, open mic, and wanted to taste the way her words sounded on the inside of her mouth. Her eyes closed when she spoke, her lips parted slightly and her teeth rested against the back of her naked lips. It wasn’t so much that she was prepossessing, but that her her words possessed me. More than any printed page penned by an old, dead white man on the classics shelf. Her rhythm matched my heartbeat, I wanted to watch it pump blood through both of our bodies, out of her mouth and into the air to mingle and make music against eardrums for all to echo in our ecstasy. But, her eyes stayed shut, blond lashes obscuring my unblinking ones as I stared on. I tried to make my way to her when she finished, to shake her hand, to be close enough to smell her sticky-sweet breath and see the remnants that language had left behind on her tonsils and tongue, but I was immobilized. Instead, I watched as other women approached her, touched her shoulder, extended their hands, walked away with her as her voice was drowned by the wide walls of the hall.
It has been years and I still can’t keep the sound of her out of my mind.