my mouth is a field and i have taken you hostage. you are the seed in my mouth. i have bitten into your coat, but not into you. instead of spitting you out, i let you float about like a mint. you have no taste, but i learn from your texture. you have modest curves, small indents and a fragile tip that i poke with my tongue as i hold you between my teeth. i can tell which colour you are, though i cannot see you. you are diminutive, but your skin is tough, and i would never torture you. i wonder if you miss your shell, i wonder if you are cold, i wonder if i am warm enough. could you grow in the hollows of my gums? could you sprout vines on my palate? do you find comfort twirling without aim, or would you prefer the balance of the earth? i do not know how long i will keep you in my mouth; you are a guest, but also a prisoner. at some point you will have done your time, you will lose your compass, and i will bid you farewell with a spit, or a swallow.