I tickle your lips
with the rustle of leaves,
dry as cornflakes -
the barest brushing of mouth on mouth.
I bring you fresh flowers
and arrange them in this vase.
I remove all past kisses -
other men's pseudo-kisses;
I exsanguinate them
and send them off
to stumbling bureaucracies,
where they're lost in arcane filing systems.
I'm all that remains:
I supplant inferior affection,
as I plant each shrub in your sweet garden.
I speak softness into your spirit,
and blow bubblegum-happy universes
into your pink imagination.
I smile across your suburbs.
I grin your metropolitan areas.
I laugh your speculative buildings,
your forgotten swamps.
in the chapel of happenstance,
I ring your bells,
steeple you with hymns,
hum a house of praise.
I bless you with my humble offerings.
I make the pilgrimage across your brow,
traverse your vertical cheek,
abseil your neck;
nibble your dear upper lip,
your lower lip.
I circumnavigate your smile,
assemble a topographical map.
I am Drake,
Kupe, Columbus, and Hyerdahl,
sailing across the ocean of your lips.
you are awash - windswept,
tossed with seaweed,
crawling with lobsters and silver fish;
and I'm built of air currents,
skipping over your thunderous breakers,
your gentle ripples.
I'm all of the weather in your seven seas,
storming over you,
propelling you gently to shore.
your teeth appear between continents
and light the way home.
the street lamp glistens on your windscreen.
I disentangle myself –
and you drive off to your home, waving at me
through the passenger side window.