You are a
fine wine
and you go to
my head,
I swim
lengths,
I swallow
water,
I drown
in your
bouquet.
You are
love’s swine,
a perfect
narrow line,
the prick of
a porcupine,
with spittle
do you shine:
in radiance,
night or day.
You draw
sense from chaos,
bring me in
to rest,
a loving,
peaceful test.
You weave me
into your
vision,
wear me on
your finger,
sew me with
precision.
Never a harsh
tongue,
always a soft
attitude,
I am borne
high up
above the
clouds:
how can one
person
bear my
weight solely
upon their
back?
But you do
it:
you don’t
even know it,
and that’s
why
I wash your
feet with kisses,
a baptism of
lips,
(though my
lips aren’t worthy to kiss
such blissfully
clean
magnificence).
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