Love, Moscato & Other Vices

My love is mead tongue.

Moscato wine poured in a pitcher.

Craving love.

My love tends it’s fingers

before it even begun eating.

My love is melon dew,

coming down her neck.

Immense love.

Brain freeze, stomach ache love.

Cavity love.

Soft hands holding the heart,

out and open love.

Season love, summer love.

Sticky sweet,

sticky dew love.

My love can’t ride bikes,

or drive cars.

My love walks everywhere.

Walking upon the river,

conquering the storms

she holds inside her.

Feeds her mind,

embraces her imperfections.

Barefoot love.

My love extends itself

out into the wilderness.

It kisses like a nectarine,

softly and leaving her

wanting more.

My love is never ending.

My love is a wanderlust,

a bearer, a soft-bliss,

an anchor.

My love is thriving, tepid.

It breathes.

It lives.

My love loves.