the curve of your lips
softly turning against your skin
and the soft light of early summer
against gold eyes so translucent
they call me and

it makes me want to lose myself

memory of touches, the way my lips
throb by just the thought of your
fingers on them

your lips on mine is a thought that is
chemical, creates butterflies

your eyes have a gravitational pull
and here i am, barely holding on
**** of war without meaning to resist

your fingers trace my arm and
you say you left with my scent on you