Did I mean it?

You're a sin
and you keep me trying
to invade under or in or upon your tanned skin
with a tongue or a breath or nails that would dig

deep within. I suppose, it's inscribed
upon my nature, in small print. Yours is
the subscription I paid and painted
on the insides of my wrists with the least

of intentions that you dared to bear with
your bare flesh. Yet here, hanging
from your lips, when you turn over to look at me, are the freshly cut
keys to a new, rather marvellous, start.