If you speak of me in such oily vinegar,
then reply to me with joy subsequent,
I shall think of you as polar Cressida,
as she slalomed between bi-encampment.

To see your mouth forming my name-
Blisters peeled back so I may openly lament-
Of every rolling hill your fingers grazed carefully,
And every forged wanderlust you splashed upon my chest

Hellbent on spent days and evenings anew,
Lipped old promises freshly feigned undue.
Take me for bitter, and taste me all too sweet,
Storm whorled to ebb, still flow we accrete.