You bury your face in the crook of my neck
and tell me
I taste like honeyed clove pears,
sticky and bittersweet,
heavy on your tongue.
And you say, with your fingers
pressed to tender mounds of skin,
those aching bones, those
trembling nerves, you
murmur that
you swallowed the sun,
to feed me the moon.
You tell me that
you can smell the sea in my hair,
taste the warmth of light on my shoulders.
I want to tell you that you are the dark woods,
the tumultuous night, the roaring storm and
the blazing sky,
that you taste like blood, like brine and bread,
and feel like wool, like wolf-fur, gone feral,
your teeth grazed across my chest.
But my words are gone in shallow gasps, your mouth
restless, searching the curves
of my back.
