Her still singing limbs*revised

You ask me the color of the inside of my tongue.
But there's no color, only one thick vowel, wrapped around itself like a drying ball of wax.
I watch the mole on your lower lip wiggle under the weight of the news, press my thumb to it
and steady your jaw in my palm like a teacup in a saucer.
I'd tense for a clang of glass when we touch.
But there are echos in your questions and holes between your breath.
We listen to the splash of unanswer. The long drop of just below, beneath, or if you prefer, treading water.
I feel thunder break under your skin
and the scar that bites your cheek chokes to an asphyxiated purple;
a fat worm on cement waiting out the rain.
You roll my words into a ball and pitch them back into the fire as if to say
try again
For now we'll add this to the collection of questions we can't keep warm.