The insuppressible urge to feel
your mouth
is what has me
lying awake.
Your mouth, because it is the vessel
through which
you feed me
raffle tickets
to your
mind--
the kaleidoscopic place
of your emotions;
anger mixed with hurt,
folded into a candied
sort of gentleness
and
a genuine sweetness
that begs
to
be
sucked ...
and savored.
And won.
I could just call it a kiss,
but that would dismiss
the quiet work
that I have done
to observe you
in your element.
And calling it a kiss would devalue
how
deeply
I am
smitten.
Your lips on mine;
it deserves
a proper name unlike another.
So while your
right
fist
is
high,
I'd like to look you
in your eyes
while I lean in ...
for a not a kiss,
but
for
my
prize.
