My mouth aches for the softness of her lips,
quivering like petals trembling in the wind.
She senses the storm in my gaze,
and folds shyly against the wind.
The moon hangs above,
like a patient spy,
its cold body soaking their burning desire from afar,
ready to whisper it
into the ears of the sleeping town.
So I bribe the clouds with the scent of a man
who walks without an umbrella,
so they may spill themselves upon him,
and dance to the shiver of his soaked body.
They take my gift into their wandering wallets,
and begin their silent labour.
They close their fists around the moon,
the brightest coin of the night
and hide it in their dark purse.
Now, in the velvet hush,
I sip her breath
as if it were the final drop of nectar
left to the world.