I have written so often about your voice, but the feeling
remains, ever present, like a ringing in my bones. The taste of
your words as they leave your lips, like honey on my
fingertips… I wish to hear your whispering words, close
enough to feel your Tongue. The music from your mouth
amoung the sighings there in silken sheets. The sighing of my
dying Lungs, you steal my breath, with only a sound, a
whisper, a word. Your verses only make it worse.
About the Author: Æverett
Æverett lives in the northern hemisphere and enjoys Rammstein and Star Trek. He writes both poetry and fiction and dabbles in gardening and soap making. She has two wonderfully old cats, and a dearly beloved dog. He also plays in linguistics, studying German, Norwegian, Russian, Arabic, a bit of Elvish, and developing Cardassian. Language is fascinating, enlightening, and inspirational. She’s happily married to her work with which she shares delusions of demon hunters, detectives, starships, androids, and a home on the outskirts of a small northern town. He’s enjoyed writing since childhood and the process can be downright therapeutic when it’s not making him pull his hair out. It’s really about the work and words and seeing without preconceptions.