Don’t ask me about our conversations,

How he turns my tongue into a loom that weaves innuendo,

every other word a variation of invitation.

"Hello" purrs like "come here,"

"good morning" yearns to be "night."

The constant struggle of spaces-

to find,

to fill,

to close.

Don’t ask me about his mouth,

It’s rhythm that makes a stutter of my pulse.

His lips, how they ruby and part, taut like a drum

over his crooked smile,

how I want them to make music of me.

Don’t ask about my fingers afflicted by wanderlust,

how he feels like a long, open road, the lines of him begging

exploration, to trace the places remembered…

discover what’s yet to be found.

Don’t ask me about his hands.

How they are beautiful and skilled in ignition.

About my tinder skin or the fire of his gaze…

how I burn under the lidded, blue flames.

Don’t ask me about my hunger,

the way my stomach drops when he comes to me, jaw tensed, sweet

skinned and swollen,

how it’s yet to be appeased.

How I shape my lips to say “yes,”

how it always feels like “please”