with care [ and itching fingertips

even if it all crumbles to dust and silky grey ash

my soul still begs

it whimpers

( yes... it does )

for the skin on skin relief

that only you can suffice,

so let me pick the wet soil from the ground

and mix it with swollen grated stars

that taste of light-years,

soul and smoke

so I can cover you with it,

marking each and every one of your scars

licking their essence of your flames, of your gentle flesh

my tongue and fingertips

dripping of amber and burgundy honey

that once was a dawn of a bursting sun,

let me taste you

taste all the memories that speak of home

of life times before, and of those still to come