a private reading

when the words drip from your lips,
I want to be standing under your chin,
open-mouthed, tongue to tongue,
feel the tips rub up against each other,
not like the grit of a cat’s tongue,
whose relentless sandpaper licking
scrapes a surface smooth, but ridge to ridge,
pulled to attention as if each notch intentionally
takes its time to find how best to fit
the grooves of sound together,
your bitter to my sweet, like tears of honey
slowly sliding through a maze of maybes
until a yes drops onto a rough patch
and a nipple of amber, heated
by the wings in your throat warms
the quivering of mine to a murmur
around the silent spaces, and then I want
to swallow you, lips and tongue and breath
from a fog that lies along a ridgeline at dawn,
to set my earlobes on fire, my cheeks to red coals,
my eyes to yours to beg for another taste