When I come up for air, long enough. Flip the switch to the lamp light closed. I gulp darkness like oxygen. Search the folding expanse of dead rooms like the wrinkled remains of night sheets. No geographic movements, these. Of malapropisms and the desire of my discontent reverberations tucking like the tongue of me in your left ear. Like a word left misspelled. These motions through the seam of the room of the soft space between your lips. Unstuck to the memory of the movement. Of glome bird calls. And the way words wind themselves into soft pulsating bits left to stick. Feels the way sometimes. I lose myself. In the gap between your teeth.