Tat

Those lemon drops
you swallow down your throat
once of all
where my tongue pierced
your soul.
The midst of your neck.

Then looking down to the ground
sniffing the distant autumn air
I see ants stack their grains
for winter.
The winter in your heart.
Let me take winter away.
Slowly
As I frequent your dreams
and show you
mine, from last summer.

The summer.
A bloom of a flower.
The blossom of my petals
shrouded
in peels of laughter and
those dainty quick coughs
to follow by a whiff of promises
you gave me, then.

Promises.
They bloomed like those periwinkle flowers
those that perched on the most curved branch.
Like the arch of your brow
as you twitch in facial pleasure
as I run a wet toe across your thigh.

Wet.
Like those, then, sleepless monsoon nights
spent in vapors of eucalyptus
trying to wash away in its aroma
and of rain soaked mud, the wet moistness
of my cheek.Writhing.
Which you in winter took away.
As of a fur cocoon
Of the imagination of a slightly opened mouth
That's how you make me wet.

And how could the nectar of honey in summer be sweeter
when all the honey I tasted was in winter.

And to all those porcelain sheets to be washed at home.
That were taken out to fulfill the Portia in me.
I crinkle my nose as I dust the wine glasses.
Each sparlking to be lipped.
Cupped.
wine, in the goblet.
now I rack them back onto the shelf.
Below which the fishes in the fish tank
spectated
some mischief in the air.
As you stepped in and out.
Of the kitchen.

The kitchen of our home.

To those verses that never reached paper.
They were fulfilled, before a plea, was written.

And star fish squiggle
and the want to butter their pores.
drown into the sea shore
as I wait to kill the sun.