…
Your parched, cracked lips taste like they have been deprived,
robbed of sunshine, shattered porcelain, and cutting mine.
But I continue.
I kiss the sorrow off your dark lips, and
taste bitter words, the foul bile of arguments.
I should not be your sun:
A sun will dry out anything. (Such as our love.)
The sun is unmatched; it has no equal. (You are my equal and there can be no two suns.)
Too much sunshine burns the skin.
(On the contrary, my endless hours of caressing your skin give only life.)
Therefore, I will be no sun.
My lips are the calm before a storm, as it hovers over your own.
With each kiss I breathe new life into your mouth,
soothing your cracked desert lips and bathing the Earth anew.
I rewrite the clay sculpture of our love, at the brink of being dried by my past words.
As my tongue molds the cracks together and peels away the dead layers,
I find the sweetness of affection underneath.
You held a flicker of a candle within for all this time.
Slowly, your Earthly lips turn warm and soft.
I watch your pupils expand
as if they were midnight seeds in rich brown soil,
cautiously blooming in your eyes.
For a fleeting moment I assumed these would grow to vibrant flowers
but I was wrong; these are no flimsy, seasonal flowers.
In your eyes is a strong sapling that will grow and endlessly reach for the sky.
In time it will embrace the rain with unbreaking branches that taste the falling raindrops,
falling like your warm tears before my eyes.
...