Touching tongues

Cursive, like a pencil never lifting from the page.

Two voices singing as one.

Butterfly wings,

reflecting color and shape...

one across from the other,

connected at the heart.

Words against a mirror taking new meaning in the reflection,

foreign as Greek,

new like a guest

then warm and familiar like sweet milk at bedtime...

a promise to read slowly,

using that low voice you have.

Yes honey, just like that.

Just... like... that.

The corners where we touch and glide

the spark where we leave a little space.

Two voices connected at the meaning.

Two tongues together make song.