I could chew the sweat off the nape of your neck,
a place I lingered far, far too long.
I kept a reservation on standby there,
daring for another taste of your salt,
your cure,
your lust.
I always needed something to wash my apertif down with,
before the main course was served,
so I’d flirt with my thirst for gastronomy
and drink up your breaths
like some airy exotic dessert.
I never liked waiting until the end for my sweet.
I could flick my tongue and make patterns
in the air with the sticky heat,
writing my lurid thoughts about the
connections and departures forthcoming;
I had to consume you, and yet,
I felt like I was always rushing.
To those hips.
The curved, illicit pillows I kept my hands,
my lips,
my very being all locked to.
I had my own contours mapped out,
where I’d place my hands
while we intertwined and let
our bodies melt into the night.
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