The Covenant

There’s an oath beneath every sentence –
not written,
not sworn,
but breathed into the shape of grammar,
a covenant made in the quiver
between syllables.
One mouth meeting another
in a contract older than lips.

Mind calls it the cooperative principle.
But the body knows better.
The body calls it need.
The need to be touched
in a place no hand can reach –
not quite the soul,
but something nearby,
aching.

You’ve felt it too, haven’t you?
That moment in a conversation
when everything tilts –
not into love,
not yet –
but into possibility.
A pause that hangs
like a secret about to be confessed
or undressed.

Say enough.
Say it right.
Say it bare.
That’s the rule.
We don’t talk to share facts.
We talk to seduce.
To draw breath across the skin
of another’s listening.

Even lies play by the rules –
the tongue must still curl just so,
must still taste the outline
of what could be true.

There’s a rhythm to honesty,
but betrayal has its own melody.
It hums under your words
like heat under a locked door.
Even that,
if done gently,
can be forgiven.

Because what matters isn’t what we say –
it’s how.
It’s always how.

A look held too long.
A word dropped like a hand
on a bare shoulder.
A sentence slowed
as if unbuttoning itself.

We smuggle desire into the folds of speech.
We wrap meaning in tone,
gesture,
breath –
until it slips past logic
and lands between two ribs
where knowing becomes ache.

In the temple of speech,
we are not honest.
We are aroused.

Each phrase a finger tracing
what we cannot touch.
Each nod a sigh disguised.

What is language, really,
but a truce between minds
too hungry to be alone?

Still, we speak.
Still, we perform the rite.
Still, we lean forward
when a voice
shivers –
just enough –
to promise
touch.