licking cappuccino foam off my upper lip,
I notice for the first time
the shape of your mouth,
the perfect cupids bow.
somewhere in between my 21st and 22nd rib is an arrow,
lodged there by a tiny plump marksman
but the copper taste in my mouth is so sweet
I wash it down with steamed milk
I bite your upper lip
and if this injury puts me on bedrest
I’m just fine with that -
tangled in bed I’ll give you a million kisses
with my own bow
hitting the mark over and over again.
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