When He Reads for Me

When he reads for me, the tip of his tongue joyfully sauté on the alveolar ridge, and those German consonant clusters explode and shoot out stars. A new universe is born. And I am a speck of cosmic dust, drawn by the gravity, frantically swirling amongst a nebula towards the hot centered mass.

When he reads for me, each vowel, one after another, flooding over his lips, pouring, deluging my bedroom floor. Meanings sprout on this fertile plain, and grow into clans of proud warriors, raising their arms, making their faces. You hear the thunders approaching, and there comes the war cry.

When he reads for me, the vibration down in his chest oscillating in longitudinal waves, pounding the world, turning classical physics upside down. Light coils, oxygen boils. The space between us is made of shattered diamonds, across the room sit I, dazzled by his effervescent silhouette.

When he reads for me, the texture of his voice is the magic carpet, rolls out the path to all the wild wonders. I scramble uphill to see what’s on the other side. It’s a valley of crystal balls, each one preciously holds a snippet of his memory. He picks up one and lifts it to my nose, I peek through, and I see bliss.