tips run on skin,

his song -
for my troubled child,
a soft sedation to hands in tremble -
and the sheets we dream on /in flagrante/
to the widest eyes.
softest of his burns
awake me.
i am an ache to his mutable charm. 

the words 
of his offering heave up
my throat in delight. chain me to 
logic, i'm yours to work to 
clocks' strike, until midnight and 
afternoon is bright, 

that body was built to 
weigh down on mine, each syllable offered 
i play on my tongue down his
chest 
and up the spine. 

lay me down to 
the dark in your infatuation, your hands to 
the marks on my skin speak 
vigorous.
your laughter echoes on the walls, 
sweat to wine
and i taste 
fever. the bitter of grapes and 
sugar canes from those lips
to fill me.

full, i take the gardens you grow 
for me, to ease my flaws
and
all.