daysixteen.

a persistent perspiration.
i feel you, cradled,
in the dew on my upper lip.
my eyes digress.
i know patience would advise otherwise,
but there's something alluring about
the hint of sanctity in this mess.

a familiar tone clouds the air,
like the condensation on her bathroom mirror.
and now i'm waiting,
just like she's waiting,
but these images won't bleed any clearer.

fingers cross between cages,
tips caress hollow ribs.
and as she smiles, the taste lingers,
through the buzzing of
'she never was'
and 'i never did.'

my random musings are nondescript,
only forlorn, at best.
like how incessant thoughts
eradicate need of small talk
in the moment
gravity
beckons
her dress.

la luna

in sleep she breathes romance in rhythms

her body tired by love made.

sleep falls over her eyes,

slides between lips,

parting them

in the same gentle fashion

thighs shift

at ever-influencing fingertips.

recalling

those flesh embodied moments-

soft sweat covered backs,

foreheads, blankets.

my tongue swept against

my bottom lip

and i was to never forget

the way

she tastes.

audible correspondence,

our messages in

labored breathing and moans.

with a fistful of hair

she pushed my name

from lungs,

against and up the back

of her throat,

and at the entrance of her ear
i echoed

that i loved her just the same.

in the solitude of pleasure-laden sleep,

her grip on my arm

goes limp and drifts

and i can feel her exhales

dance past the small hairs

enshrouding

my neck.

eyelids meet at centers,

soon i'm engulfed in illusions.

and if i were to stay suspended,

held fast in unconscious's state,

i'd still remember

from when tongue and lip grazed

the exact way

she tastes.