You lean in, like the first Robin of spring,
Our lips, strangers at first,
Grasping for some middle ground,
Only to find the overlapping softness of brims,
Your upper lip mellifluously sweeping over mine,
As if we were searching for lost pearls.
You lean in, like a sodden tulip.
Inhaling only our breath and our flavors.
Our tongues adage,
Cultivating the future ground,
For the Queen of the night.
Unhurried in our evolution.
You lean in, like the stratus.
Rising with the gentle draw of a lower.
Lips like red licorice.
Pink and flushed like the sunrise in May.
Please…Please…won’t you lean in.