He said I would never forget
the taste of his name
on my lips,
the soft sound of his breath
against my irregular heart
beat
he told me, the first thing
about love was to find the
right cadence of their name
in your mouth,
it was more important than
the brush of fingertips on
naked skin,
hungrier than
the touch of lips on lips,
needier than a thousand goodnights.
My tongue fitted the shape of it,
somehow, and I know a name
by any other rose would taste
bitter, like unsweetened lemonade
and our goodbyes would be the same, passionless, less urgent,
asserting that I would never
forget the taste of my first
love's name on my lips