If you can feel it in your hands, you can take a bite of it.
Words I live by
when the trees slouch and the day fades faster.

We meet in the backseat.
The crunch of gravel under bald tires,
and the resounding halt among the wind-dried pines,
the parking break squeak and seat-belt clatter.
We waste no time-- slick upholstery
and quite honestly no shame,
just claws and sweat and dripping, sated lips.

The air waxes saccharine,
cloistered like this in a pile of limbs,
ambrosia-addled as we are.  
But the cloying reek of it--
of something overripe and rot-ward bound--
sanctifies this feast.

And despite the rush and rising ache,
we both accept the sacrifice.