Whisper

We whisper who we are
behind closed doors as
fresh water drips from our breasts and hips
strips the illusions we succumb to.

She asks me if we'll ever run out of things to talk about and
I think not because conversation is malnourished
in this hyper-texted post-orgasmic cosmic consciousness
where language is stripped
red raw and bleeding
the Scarlet Letter dripping through the creases.

But I breathe easy in the presence of greatness
of words creating images
and the elegance of language.