you know you're an outlet--

to be blunt,
your lips are a train wreck and
i am elated to burn to death in the
spatial explosion your mouth on mine
inexplicably and consistently creates;
i am finding that we could be plaster
molded to perfection
and still not be in love, sweetheart,
and have you thought that maybe
it's all summer leaves and no
wind?

although you are green grass to my
sun-stormed sidewalk,
i have energy enough for the Atlantic
and i miss ocean-dipped fingertips
along my skin.
there is no 'us' except when we're alone
because we can't stop thinking about
the way our lips are built for each other,
petal-shaped flesh soft like air
but more than i've ever needed--

once again,
i miss your touch.