My lips tremble against this evening air,
not for the sadness of memory,
but with hunger,
with a searing want
that seeks for your skin,
that remembers
and knows only
there is nothing else
beneath the early winter moon
that tastes as sweet,
that scars so deeply
as the press of your kiss
in those moments of shadow
that will never
leave my skin,
that will forever burn
in waiting,
in longing,
for everlasting want.
