This pair of mute lips cannot call
your name; they can only slaver,
and await your lips and touch.

Place your lips on them
and caress them with your tongue –
while they blush before, they now
burn an intense, urgent red.

A single bijou hides between
their folds, burnished with an
inner glow – yours for the taking,
an opiate to my soul.

Come,
taste me
and drink from my lips;
let your breath ignite
the smoldering flames within –

these lips may be mute, and
cannot call to you,
but they would gush

and I
would sing your name.

tasteful