You bite your lip in
nervous habit, a tiny
blossom of blood rises.
I want to put my thumb
there, to taste the salt
and pain. In nervous
habit, I want this blood
to rise like a rose against
your thigh. Tiny blossom
against my lips. I want
your bite, the wound and
the salt. My thumb in the hollow
of your beautiful throat.
To taste your lips, a nervous
habit. And sometimes,
also, this pain.
Photo Credit: anderson2011101 Flickr via Compfight cc
