Your lips taste of sweetest spice,
the piquant flavor of lovers so divinely intoxicating.
We drink of an ancient vintage
and wear our perversions
like the embered dust of fallen stars.
It clings to our skin as sincerely
as the fruit of laden branches.
Beneath the tree of sorrow, we lay
among the ripened fruits and buried seeds.
I offer you my heart and body
as the aged bark splinters
my tendered flesh. The essence of a woman
is never forbidden, but a fine elixir,
which comes upon me
as the purple of bruises.
You compose me, as mistress, in your poems:
the heartaches I've confessed
the passion that burns behind a cesarean scar
ignites, and usurps us in your bed.
As I linger in the glow of sex & verse
you proclaim in your vulgar tone -
'When I write about you, Tereska,
it's just exactly the same as fucking you.'
And somehow, there is conspiracy in your words.