Build Me a Sentence of Myself

I know this language.
I know these words.

They shape the curve of your lips
the arching brow
the rough nape of your neck
where the hairs are short
and tickle my palm.

The syllables fall like water drops
rolling easily along your hot skin.
I am lost in the language of you,
my native tongue
the pulsing recognition
of neurons
that never forget
the syntax
and pace
of your worried hush.

Build me a sentence
of myself
that we may unite
together
songs
of devastating love.
Our voice will still the ocean.