Before he puts his hands over my head and pushes me under
he lays out before me the quietly rippling surface of his voice.
It goes down my ears and seals my eardrums with sweet wax.
No other sound, not now, not ever after.
I drink it down my lungs. It is thirst it brings, not oxygen.
Dearest, speak to me.
Never has a body been more beautiful as when he wraps me in his voice, has it soft-melt on my skin, has it linger soft and warm.
I want to touch his voice box, put my fingers softly on the pointy bit below thin skin and feel its lovely purring underneath.
An exercise in patience first, but peace all afterwards. He makes perfect pauses. His timing is complete. Let his tone of voice reveal the shape his face assumes and the gesture of his hands.
Touch me not but speak to me: Cloak me in the passing garment of your voice, let me breathe the honey of its sound: Restrained enunciation, perfect rhythm, sleek texture – all sweet consonants and full-mouthed vowels.