lips
©1997 by Jennifer Honeycutt. May not be reproduced without permission.
your lips burn wild
against a chalky face—
red screams from your mouth
fill the hollow inside my chest
and i ache but not enough to matter.
in the risk of each other,
we dance so close
and your lips burn me,
purple marks on my forehead,
my cheek,
my hand.
your mouth moves slowly,
waltzing in tune with our music.
your lips burn wild
and sink through my skin,
sink through the layers that lead to
my blood,
sink through the layers that cover
what aches,
what makes my skin scream—
your eyes like sandpaper.
in the risk of each other
you haven’t noticed
i’m not crying as usual, my eyelids are
burned shut,
my eyes are glass that has melted
and seeped away.
it’s running down my arms
and onto your lips.
your lips burn wild
and your tongue waltzes heavily
around my face,
spreading ashes like butter.
the music is loud, too loud
to turn away—
the floor tilts and i am on it,
cold against the burns.
in the risk of each other,
i’ve been afraid of you,
won’t look at you with your black
eyes and curled fingers,
won’t see your lips before they hit me,
can’t feel the blister
as it caresses my shoulder.
your lips burn wild,
but they have finished with me.
they are cooling, fire-like,
turning gray to match your eyes,
to match the ashes on your tongue.
you touch them but touch me instead.
i am in your lips,
i will claim them.
in the risk of each other
you stand over me, hover over me.
music is quiet, waltz is over;
i creep silently under your feet
and steal the lips from your body.
now they are my lips,
my mouth, my ashy tongue that crashes
into you.
your lips burn wild on me.
i can feel your skin—
it’s salty, stings, tastes like a cool
wet match.
