Word

There's a word you've met but once and now forgotten for the spoon-shaped concave under your Adam's apple: a small pouch that must be kissed and kissed again by lovers learning the ins and outs of one another and where last night in the sleeping dark a lone mosquito inserted itself and drew fresh blood and left venom and a couple of love-bites then left without waking you although this morning you'll blaze with the minute but unassuageable pain of them—which only that word that's vanished into the mud of memory might be the right cooling balm for.