The taste of you goes wavy
as you begin a dance inside
my mouth with your leading tongue,
even though I’m the movement
instructor. When you put
your lips to mine, I speak
Merengue, Cha-Cha,
Bachata. Rhythm
by divine intervention.
In this space, time
has no edges. It’s fuzzy
and blurry and smeared,
like the lipstick you wipe
off my teeth. Out in the
world, my language is order,
precision, control, and clean
lines, but here, in this loopy,
erotic dimension, I can’t tell
where your lips end
and mine begin.