Sucking My Tongue

I want your tongue

to mark my collarbones

the same colour

as the plum dye

your ex

smothered her hair with,

when we joked

she looked like

Barney,

“I love You”, “You love Me?”

 

I want your tongue

to tell me the truth

about what you did

to her

in those weeks apart,

when you rung me

half high

half horsed

and you regretted it

“wholeheartedly”.

 

I want your tongue

to roam between my lips,

find my mistakes

and recall them.

To find the blue of my past,

and the sordid details

that gave me very

little energy

to fix even the black of my tooth,

“I’ll book it for you.”

 

I want your tongue

to fill the holes with your phlegm,

with crashing teeth

like tectonic plates

just as they did

in that film,

that felt more like

it was watching us

than us watching it,

“stop laughing!”

 

I want your tongue,

anything

for you to temporarily become part of me.

For,

I find myself now

sucking my tongue,

folding one half to the other

in memory of you,

like aftershocks.

But you don’t.