The tip of my tongue trails along his lip,
and I call it poetry. Like flames screaming fly

into a balloon in the sky: that is the way
he sighs before kissing my skin; and we

call it poetry. Whispering Hozier lines
of dark earth and cherry wine—fingers on

soft lobe and brown hair; he calls it poetry.
He is crisp smell and warm sheets: apple

spice and downy threads just at the stretch
of my hands across his chest. Shimmering

fingerprints litter his chin, and that
is poetry. My words in his mouth, praise

swallowed behind licked teeth. I see
the way his eyes drift to mine. His lids

be damned for holding the bluest blue
to be. The ocean would blush and call him

poetry. Until my mind decays enough
to hate the feel of his shoulder brushed

against mine, I will write the lines his body
reflects, so sweet, and call it poetry.

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