Amuse-Bouche

Like a small blessing
or an amuse-bouche,
the lithe hair flowing
just above Your brow
collects soft kisses from
My lips each morning.
 
I, grateful for the taste,
do follow the curve of
Your feathery hairline,
and alight My tongue
upon Your tender lobe,
where I nibble and flick.
 
From here, I descend,
across silken cheeks,
to Your naked neck,
and gently suckle its skin
with My famished maw.
 
Bountiful, Your Body;
My appetite, it does whet.
Barely three courses in,
My hunger’s in Your debt.