I want to be the metallic tang on your faintly rouged lips—
a delicious lingering, unable to be licked off
—instrumental in your melodic intimations.

I am a luminous, lilting voice that quavers slightly
when your milk-warm breath grazes my silvered skin:
honeyed whispers provoke a trembling, tumultuous crescendo
and you're still murmuring global pitches in my tingling ears,
unaware of how perfectly I could harmonize your melodies.

I want to be played by you with small velvet hands—
your slender wrists reflected in my elusive, mirrored gaze
—the echo of your name always singing in my spine.