Hireath To Passion

Sometimes at night
I can taste it on my lips
Passion: Strong coffee
and warm, soft kisses.

It fades quickly, like the lingering
of a delicate perfume
In an empty room
and I miss it when it goes,
but I’m just too tired to chase it.

My little hireath,
so elusive, so lovely,
the quiet madness of it all
Leaves me breathless.