we crave unusual words like
freshly picked raspberries
found hiding in a thicket
nest; but February has
settled and we are left to
scrape at what remains
unsaid from our tongues

his lips were of salt and
rust, maybe it is how
love tastes after all this
time it’s different we say
as my fingers unbutton his
shirt and I feel him fumbling
to pull my jeans down below
the waist—are we crazy to give
ourselves like this? he pauses,
and kisses slowly before saying
‘it would be crazy not to’