slapping gums

we play games, my friend and i. we tread a line. we have heartrending talks, carefully managing not to rend anything. our hands are held out, our palms sealed. lines crossed out.

occasionally we wince at the nip of a teething truth on our ankle. it rarely draws blood and, later, it rarely persists. bone breaking through flesh needs contant sucking pressure. and a sharp loving clamp every now and then. but we leave it in ignominious peace and talk only of chewed food. habitual rumination. another enamel soldier surrenders his ridges and draws back.

i'm beginning to think this is a generation disconnected at the hip. we fuck with choreographed abandon and cower at the intrusion of a hug.