I catch myself thinking about your lips, again.
And one particular smile; I find it mesmerising.
Wryness and sadness and resolute strength,
That gentle smile, that almost smile, that 'shall I...?' smile.
There's a no-surrender steel to your stare, a hardness
In the set of your shoulders, the tension in your neck,
But your lips are all softness and so, so sweet
I imagine them to be; a piquant sweetness,
Mixed spice, vanilla and burnt sugar.
I catch myself thinking about your lips, again,
And wishing I could taste them.
My fingers to my own, I gently ****,
And lose myself in a cinnamon dream.