I love how your kiss
is impertinent
and imprecise,
like sounds still falling
after the noise has stopped.
You said my lips were rare creations,
puckering and slow moving -
not wanting to give in
too soon or to forget the weight
of skin.
Yours fit mine
imperfectly,
impolite and demanding -
not caring
if there were edges
or crevices to wander in.
Just the feel of flesh,
imperfect and impudent
and taut as summer's
wanton music -
looking for a place
to haunt.