Honeydrunk

poetic musings on the feast of Eros

I remember how, 
with lights down
I get drunk on him
before crawling 
to hover
above 
his breath
anticipating tongue
inside my
cavernous
darkness.

Is there anything sweeter?
Is there?
Anything more 
honey-dripping 
than a wine red dress 
pouring from my shoulder, 
then further,
revealing a
begging breast,
pale pink
inviting 
lips to kiss?

Which bits will he 
conquest next?
My body, 
teased,
writhes in agony
wanting to be 
eaten
completely.

I am your feast.

Why do I feel 
your eating
as the end of me?

Why this
throat opening?

A hymn, 
moaning.

Feed each other, 
we.
Forget who 
I am.
Become
inside me.
Hearts, 
chambering.
Tears,
praying,
falling wisely.
Salty lips
I long to lick.

Giving me
Now,
Eternally.