In The Mouth of Desire

Dryness is such in me I cannot speak,  articulate my thoughts, desires, tongue-tied I am, and in your presence, a poor, weak servant, who, in asking, has no self-pride. Your parted ruby lips, while mine are dry, in contrast, glisten with overt desire; a tongue across them means I will comply? To deny, would turn me to a liar. And should the hair shirt dryness moisture meet in doing so articulate my thoughts; I feel that I would still be incomplete for you are you, and me, a psychonaut. Kiss me, kiss me slowly is all I ask why is that such a complicated task?