Your lips are a mystery to me.
I have studied their soft implications:
how moisture beads, tongue-touched
after certain words have rained;
their principle unfolding beneath
the warmth of breath, gathered
upon their petals, as if
tasting the humid sun;
I want so much to know
how your lips blush shamelessly,
why their feathered curve feels
like a moan, how they ripen
subtly into kisses, the tongue
in which they say take of us
and feed, smear your pollen
we will make blossoms and smiles.
Nov 8, 2011
Nov 8, 2011 at 5:12 PM UTC
Your lips are a mystery to me.
I have studied their soft implications:
how moisture beads, tongue-touched
after certain words have rained;
their principle unfolding beneath
the warmth of breath, gathered
upon their petals, as if
tasting the humid sun;
I want so much to know
how your lips blush shamelessly,
why their feathered curve feels
like a moan, how they ripen
subtly into kisses, the tongue
in which they say take of us
and feed, smear your pollen
we will make blossoms and smiles.
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