It is for the second night that I sit here,
a drunken intimacy
in the pallor complexion of dusk

and I decide I want to kiss you.

And I don't care for
where or how long because
these petty details are mere etiquette
that my ready Hypothalamus
bares ignorance to,
pulls its hands into its pockets and
ventures into the recesses of its physicality.

Because in raw honesty it wants
to obliterate everything
physical and tangible, as
mere reality is vanity that
eclipses the thrum of
norepinephrine and
serotonin swirling in the
flute of violet honey my
impatient mouth savours.

But I would rather it be your mouth,
spare the lunacy of liquids and
replace it with two moons,
crescent and full,
tinged with the blush of
my wine stained teeth.

So we can both forget
my crooked smile or
your shy intricate scar.

Because I want to kiss you
adeptly and defiantly,

in the pallor complexion of dusk
I want to kiss you.