So sugar muse me, make me take it on
the lips, insist I watch, don’t touch, and learn
to take instruction. Give me sugar burn,
those tiny crystals on my tongue… are gone.
Your smile explains why pain is sometimes sweet.
I want to see that honey flesh made real
beneath my fingers, tasted on my lips.
I want to lap in tiny, syruped sips,
and being tasted taste you as I feel
you salt me with the sugar of defeat.
I know this game’s rules: look, but only touch
as circumstance allows and muse permits.
The muse will choose to spoon as little/much
as sweetens her before she calls it quits.