Watermelon tastes nice on

chapped lips, especially when

they’re yours. I’ll soften those sweet

petals with mine, tainted pink,

like fruit-candy on my tongue.

I’ll massage soft, braless flesh

with chipped polish tipped fingers

and warm palms cupped to send waves

pulsing tropic through us both.

Full of your candied kisses,

my feet cannot touch the floor.

Lashes dust your cheeks, and mine.

Watermelon lips on me,

like moths, damp with morning dew

pressed in to whisper words that

don’t actually exist.

I’m in your sea electric.

I will lick salt water from

the valley of nose and cheek,

stroke withering hair weary

of bleach, wisps kissing your face

beneath sun and trees that bare

your diagonal grace.

Heated, watermelon breath

fans over me from below;

a flushed cheek to silken thighs,

tangled in white sheets, writhing.

Please: don’t ever disappear