Fed

Her language drips with intelligence The slow drizzle of innuendos and proclamations from which she speaks is like witnessing stalagmites and stalagtites finally touching as if each syllable was measured by a drip so edifying And it's not just what she says but how her lips catch the light of a candle glow and how the corners of her mouth dance with her dimples, her essence is edible quite incomprehensible how one can starve by tasting it I love every morsel, every crumb that falls haphazardly, to the floor, jealous of the way, her tongue can be so judgemental, inviting then inciting, enveloping making me wish I had lettered in spiritual dynamics. I would have been a star without ever touching a ball. Her hello, and me running a million miles in my mind trying to think of some other word that rhymes with this title other than bed... I am fed