here two lips

Here two lips, at least two, lay ground for poetry of young fruits.

I revolve around Thee, longer than burial of stars, longer than real Me, when tears and kisses merge afresh. Here two lips bleed while kiss, as though eyes were burning through the ferocity of not-ashes... two lips, red skin of fruits, to devour all I whisper, all I tie with saliva to offer Thee, entirely, First Moon.

My throat weeps much deeper than myself, much freer than the songs of myself. 

Two lips. Here, tangible line from breasts to springs, It marks our bottomless symbols. 

I exist in your forgetting the troubled midnight where I weave, weave the gleams and rivers of at least two lips, unspoken. 

I insist on possible pasts and potential futures, and the tongue overflows bittersweet. Lips show humidity, bittersweet. in the breaking of dawns, I am the broken trunk that despairs of you. and the rains are we, and the snows are we. on the mouth, I write the tongue to nourish Eros while oceans and I perish, trail of electric debris...

If I could despair of you over the breasts where the fable begins or over the shores where the threads of beginings tirelessly do and undo my layers of skin...

two lips again at least, two always at least, nameless power anchored in Here. I know the rhythm of It. I have no word to dance It. I speak to the flesh while lips bleed so dreamily, as though kissing and hurting Infinity.