This night,
My fingers reach for yours
to feel less alone.
My lips
insatiable
warm and facetious in laughter
wade through,
and find your tongue and cheeks.
How lovely you are!
Do you know what you want?
Can you say it?
Are you sure you wouldn’t draw new lines
and paint over them again
with new meanings and
interpretations?
Artist that you are,
is this art too?
Should I let you?
It’s the politics of skin
hungry, exploitative, calculative —
Fingers, tongues, and mouths
get their business done.
It’s my bumbling heart,
still aflutter,
always the fool.