A mirage.

Fabricated sustenance.

A false flourish.


The brush of your almond scented exhale inspires a rush that leaves me in a desired disquietude.

Still every exhale is savored by an inhale

It meanders past sun kissed mounds and valleys

Til it hits your candied oasis.


Inspiration swells with every acme reached

until

you're satiated by my nectar


Calming to a summer zephyr

I turn over to your pillowed chest,

and drift off to an insatiable reality.

+ crowned saint