There lives a man inside my neck.
I chew out my words and feed you,
Till then he wraps himself in set of bones
And grumbles till I stop speaking.
Those days he sleeps.
You sleep.
He pens his eyes open
And saunters across my mouth,
Like a dog in an open field.
Those days I face my neck
And speak to him
If speaking is a time-pool of sighs and sobs
A closing tongue, a path to the highway.
I chide him
I long for you
But other days, I want to dilute myself in my own mouth
Till I could say nothing
Of what you can’t anyway, conceive.
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