we reserve our touches for night.

we can’t afford tangerine-warmth
or raw sugarcane glances.

instead we settle for quick brushes of
eyelash against skin –
electric sensation of batwing lullabies
hummed against a perfumed throat.

constant circling of iron palms
dictates our brief exodus into
pulsating paradise

our warmth isn’t lazy citrus-glow

it’s all-consuming honey sweetness
that burns down my throat
it can caramalize blood, turn it
into candy that melts on my tongue

so we have our stolen secondsminutes
maybe an hour if we’re lucky

to explore
to smell the incense of sweat

i like to touch the creases at the corners of your eyes

brush them with my tongue or my fingers

so young, but an old soul
that for one brief second fuses with mine

while the haloed moon smiles to herself,
the choir of firefly christmas lights sings the age-old song
and we moanwhisper the tune along with them

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