Your Lips

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Your lips are lines of a poem

indelibly written upon these breasts,

upon these hips,

like a tattoo or a scar,

an invisible mark I bear

upon my skin.

And when I decorate

the walls of my mind with stars,

those verses illuminate

like phosphorescence

in the glow of black light

and the lingering language

of your kiss

speaks to me again,

a satisfyingly long

and heartfelt ballad

that rhymes in all the right places

and transports this aching body

beyond words,

into the ecstatic agony

of memory.

Honeysuckle

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Last night I came to the bittersweet edge

of my loss, the memory of you

a changeling in the night,

otherworldly,

magical.

 

Thinking of you,

this flower in my hand,

I bite down on the pithy stem,

violently,

and taste the sweet honey that oozes out.

 

Thinking of how you sucked

my own nectar

like honey

and left me breathless

to be devoured again.

 

Tonight the sky will light with the Super Moon;

it will be the moon’s closest encounter with the Earth

in a long time.

 

Like the moon,

you loom large and ethereal

in the firmament of my being,

magnetizing me with the force of your tidal pull,

reaching for me

across the chasm of time and space

to touch

your celestial body

once again.