Her Epic

On a foggy Tuesday night,
stars asleep from celebration,
moisture from stratus
settled on our faces.

It was that second
of reflectance—
the mood
stuck in your skin –
a syringe of sticky saliva:
deprived of moisture,
seeking sustenance –
in sin.

The sense of scent,
Fructis seared
nostril walls –
and with the burn
but valves never
so active.

Creaking black wheels
inched involuntarily.
My hand hovered
and held
subtle hairs
of faded beauty.

Hot breath:
innards of life
for any dehydrated lips –
false quenched
by rancid reductions
of romance –

May I forever dream
of that embrace;
and have it haunt
my stasis –
my sleep in sheets
whose lint spells
goddess – your name.