Oh. Glory over the bottom lip!
That I take liberties to claim
Indulging much, I conjure up this pastime
And declare this more than just a game.
But more than that. It’s mine!
Seems never before owned
Or maimed
or seen as a thing to be entwined.
Of glory, a body part unusually bruised and gory
nor abused, but enough of that story.
Unusual, drippy, red as bait. Ooh, what a nuisance. Let the table wait.
My promise of both pain and pleasure,
I can bite, so I will linger, and with my pressure
change you each time I run my fingers through your mane.
So, your bottom lip doesn’t have to leave your face,
Because I don’t want to leave it alone just now,
Just letting the dream be the aftertaste.
Empathy is Poetry 