You give me tongue.
Candy-floss coated words to curl round my waiting days,
They tempt like ringlets in a Renoir, intangible.
I ache to bite and taste your words,
take and devour them,
feel their syllables run through me &
quench fleetingly my impatience.
Although the consonants buzz a constant in my ear,
I can’t pin your vowels down.
Writing them is impossible
They fuzz and disintegrate to
occupy only the space of platitudes and speculative hopes.
Mouths have a myriad other functions than just talk
The tongue can form more than mere consonants.
Your words don’t gratify,
I need more this time.