Where My Mouth Learned to Pray

 

i have long learned to write poems

with my mouth,

on thighs parted like unread pages

of a book i could never finish.

i have kissed countless necks,

salt and strange,

memorized sighs

that evaporated before the morning.

my nights are crowded

with backs i have ridden

like wild horses through the dark,

hands roaming over skin

like a sinner

counting rosary beads

with fingers that forgot how to pray.

they gave me the world:

skin trembling under nails,

hips breaking like waves in my palms,

tongues spelling wet verses

onto my belly

until breath collapsed.

a world of sweat and sweetness

which i swallowed greedily

yet never filled me whole.

and then, you.

with a breath that moved slow

and a gaze too honest

for a bed this unclean.

you loved me differently:

you did not bite,

you did not tear,

you did not leave me

crumpled at the edge of the sheets

like a dress too worn.

you touched me

as though i were more

than just a body to be crossed.

your fingers read me

like a prayer,

sewing silence into my back

with kisses that fell

one by one like gentle rain.

and when you entered me,

i trembled;

not from flesh

but from something deeper:

a soul folding,

a chest cracking

like an old mirror

finally seeing itself.

since that night,

every other touch

has felt hollow:

every body, a shell

with no music inside.

every moan,

just an echo that never arrives.

because only you made this body

forget itself.

only you loved me

until i lost my name

and became nothing

but breath

and wanting.

and now,

in every bed i lie in,

something of you remains:

a hunger for your hands,

which somehow knew

how to find

what even i could not.

j a k a r t a

july 5, 2025