a good kill

each of my buttons are a cell block
when im cold
and you are warm like a dozing oven.
you cant undress me any slower and it punishes my shivering spine
and our melting restraint.

there is a taste on my tongue
an anticipation
where i wonder if your mouth is peachy, like the skin of your fruit
if i peeled you would you tremble, as nervous as the sea?

lets nibble under the curtains
that i sewed by hand with patches from the wedding dresses my grandmothers wore.
lets trace our nipples, the soles of our feet, our fingernails, with pressed lilac
grab a handful of me, hard enough to feel in the morning, so that order is restored when the distance resumes
and i am sentenced back to my blouse
and you your side of the bed.