The French call an ******
“la petite mort” or “the little death”

tango with lips, teeth, and tongue
undress each other with our eyes
an unspoken agreement that
we’re both dying a little tonight

Resurrected, I arose
for mornings thick with lust
and love and caffeine and naked kisses
And again, when night came
I did too, and fell sweetly, sinfully  
prey to the small death
ushered in with a grand symphony
of your name

Cut your teeth
on gasoline,
white lies, small death
and saccharine.

Hollow chests,
empty smiles.
thoughts and hearts
will stop a while.

Cold hands,
cold hearts.
we're dangerous children
with poisonous darts.