my lips have not been kissed 
since you left.
they quiver at the thought, await 
weakened, wet---

i sit in stillness, thoughts ripe 
like peaches round on the bough, 
	stretching, moaning 
	high above orchard's grasp.

	i am not patience, 
i want to taste you, run fingers 
across breast, touching, biting
	until the flesh becomes mine.

i will drink from your mouth,
like aged wine, slowly dripping
from cherried lips, intoxicating
my every curve.

	stroke me if you will, 
glide eagerhand up caramel thigh, 
feel me tremble, 
		yes, feel it.
i am a million lovers,
a thousand rhythms, sunlit mornings 
	after rain--- 
	i am the orchard.