le désespéré

when the sky blossoms mauve,
the words we marinated with
such fervor will have been
fermented into mead;
the only fruit of being
saccharine.

you smiled the sunset at me –
i wanted to part infinity between
the gap of your lips. your tongue
was an ocean, and the way your
tongue churned words into
sea-faring vessels was my
first foray into poetry.

my tongue is a tendril of a fevered
heart, in search of all the words
imbued with you, so i sung all your
songs, recited all your odes to coat
it in a thick layer of honey. the words
swarm as i struggle to gather enough
air to support the weight of a magnum
opus worthy of you.

there are no words.