Caveat Lector

Let's begin: we have to begin somewhere, a mouth beginning to part, lips moist for a kiss or a voice warming for speech. What does the voice say? How is it said? How much distance, longing in the tone of the voice? How does the voice cut through that longing, sever it at last and finally, that bitter longing, hanging like a sheet in the dark? The box of the larynx, the home of Maxwell's demon at last, two bodies in tandem, entropy mere trash in the lexicon bin, never coming forward to haunt the beyond, the place where forgotten voices go.
To hold that candle up in the temples, to perform those rituals forgotten to all but the bravest, walking to mass alone in the dim winter snow, a beautiful desire, the hum of voices in the seasonal air: deep, resonant, rich in its succulence, snow binding in the sound, softening it to something closer to a true heart beating. Voices saying love, in unison.
Voices: projecting images on the wall, successive, insistent, the perfect film every time. Voices across from one another, familiar, playing upon each other in a joyous intimacy, saying over and over again: you, you, you. The infinite voices of lovers, with a vocabulary of one.
In the dark, the voices are soft and sanded like smooth, cool stone. The reception from stars, interfering, attaching light and history to the words, generating force to the hearts behind them. There are voices here, those that I know and those that cannot be recognized, I lean forward my fingers, an urge to touch, mold, outline, seduce; behind the banner of the erotic come the legions of voices: they can do so much.