I'm in the mood
to press you

coffee
bitter sweet
chocolate drizzle
whipped cream.
Savory on your tongue.

Too bad I'm out of filters.

The steam warms my lungs.
A fresh breath of you starves off the cold. You speak and words spill out of your mouth like a ******* messiah. I grasp the chalice of your lips and swill the infinity of combination between my teeth. Twenty-six letters taste like gold. Milk and honey. Christmas Dinner. The thought of fingers burning poetry against my skin makes me sweat.

It's fall. Big surprise I'm thinking of you.
When the leaves tremble in winds that sting. I imagine you doing the same and I'm seduced by the thought. It would be so nice to know the veins of your form. To feel your fragility in intimate terms. To fold you over between the pads of my fingers- find your weak spots. Lines plowed in skin from desperate fingernails leave trenches perfect for warfare. I turn you up from your clavicles to your ankles.

Maybe it doesn't have to be so violent.
Maybe it can just be cold
and we can enjoy the intimacy
of a night on the porch
with a big blanket.

We'll strip down
naked
to our souls.

You can sit in my lap
and I can swim in your eyes
while we both manage
to stay warm under the stars
and the comfort
of
twenty-six
letters.