your wild taste:
exotic berry juice spit
from your berrylips;
i dip my tongue to taste again
the sour sweetness of i love you
from the fount that is your mouth.
is this a kiss,
or am i in some forbidden vineyard
dark under a moonlit nothingness,
stealing wine direct from the hanging vines
and flittering with pounding heart and racing pulse
through the grass home again? are you Dionysus?
are you home?
such wasted words, these.
as if any could ever encompass these moments between us
or fit you neatly into a little drawer like hoarded memories.
(of course, even knowing this I continue to try.)