Oh, but to be drunk on words,
and how many words might you like
to take and taste from my mouth, darling?
With your hands pressed deep
into my body, as though a soil,
dark and rich, and waiting for your seed.
Sew in me, my love –
What shall you plant? As you take
from my tongue, my lips, moist and wet,
the words that taste of crushed grapes,
of longing, and of regret, which I have
none to give, but rather, with such a kiss
to see, that you might grow a vineyard,
and in abundance, always have your fill of me.