Embers: Wet Lips

 Embers erupt and amber stars fall
our hearts bleed soot and ash.

I’ve packed my bags, ominous, amassed by the door.
Winter squalls torment the tattered remains of love.
Blurred vision disconcerting, better days
look down upon us from dividing walls.
At last dinner is served cold with a warm backhand,
forehand crystal gripped, you wet your lips with red.
Senses flirt with a swirl and scent of cedar,
you linger and taste. A mistake for me to stay, but you insist
we share our last bottle, every glass to the final drop.

Mesmerized by your unacquainted beauty. Red vision;
the enchanting Syrah has gone to my head.
Mnemonic curves arouse contemplation,
as my gaze drops in slow motion
tracing your naked body through your dress.
     
Compassion falters, but desire is faultless
our reckless orbits merge in the galley.
Raw passion, pitiful lust; anger quenched when lips collide
fumbling hands tear away your chastity.
Winter squalls overcome by resistance to exist.

“Cold hands, warm… hearts shall not part,”
you whisper sweet something and nothing coherent
as you take hold of me to devour and beg for me to stay.
Pride’s yours to swallow; I’ve much to say with my hips.

Our hands exploring forgotten lands, undressing,
confessing our needs, exposing the roots of our hunger.
Flesh bitten, skin slapped, thighs prized open, cunt fingered,
your wet lips fresh like winter dew, I enter my plea
driving deep inside until I feel the warmth of your heart.

These are the fires I miss.
Love erupts and the embers of our hearts
fall like amber stars.