give me a buttery death

May 17, 2009 17:24

The first time we made love...
we didn't make love,
it wasn't close to being perfection,
but it was good...
it was alright.

That day we took a shower together.
Your lips taste delicious under running water
even when I wondered if you were kissing me
with your eyes open.

I could've held it against you...
my body
or your mildew shower curtain
or your duct-taped windows
or your sloppy room
or the bobby pins I found near your bed.

I can't find it in me to resent you,
not for that missing inch of your height,
or the fact that you can't style your hair,
or shop for board shorts,
or luggage.

No, I love you for those reasons.
Not love.
Still, you.
Yes, you.

I am crazy about you and that missing inch,
I'll kiss every last one on your body,
run my lips over every dip,
let you dip every inch into me,
we'll come together like melted butter,
I am milk.

I'll die a buttery death under your breath.

Our particles should mingle electricly,
stirred in a bowl together,
brought to a boil,
and bubble together.

You make me burst.

I'll burst all over the room we sleep in.
I'll be impossible to clean up, you'll never get me out of there.
My fingers in your hair,
my legs around your waist.
or my face pushed to your pillow.

When we finally make love,
you'll be aware of all my reasons.
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