In the morning, in no rush
to collect your clothes or dress,
you come close and, in a whisper,
finish off in words
what your right hand left half-said
in the middle of the night.
Always when I rise to go, your eyes blaze out from a face gone wickedly pale. Edna St. Vincent Millay
Her own love or her own looks
stems from her lips. They’re a soft bow,
a fuller lower and an upper dip
she likes to highlight with a creamy matte
in neutral shades of plum or coral.
And then below, her neck holds a hollow
for other lips to breath into,
to raze against and press into