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He would not let me talk one night,
smiled, shook his head,
pressed his fingers over my mouth.
I did not argue.

The open window gave us
crickets and evening birds,
a few slow cars,
kids laughing in the park down the street
like tiny bells far off in a forest.
We had each other's breath.
We had sheets against sheets,
skin against skin.
We had every gentle sound.

We were not words, we did not need to be.
We were other languages, forgotten.
In the absence of speech
there is still so much to say.

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