I love your lips when they’re wet with wine,
Lightly glossed in sweetness to match your words.
Aged syrup clinging to the barest curves and lines,
Begging to be tasted, or so my heart discerns.
A small bead of liquid ebbing away,
On the verge of melting into his mouth, my bliss,
What fortune! I have managed it to waylay;
Indulgently stolen and claimed by my kiss.