As though thumbing plump fruit for ripeness, you palm me this way and that. Words unlace restraint. I walk the tightrope of lust, taste the pale froth of short-lived bliss. Our trysting hour quickened by morning’s first blush, I urge fresh heat upon you. My cheeks’ flush outbids the sun as I steal a path home through birdsong. Night after night you rub against rock, shed old skin for the pink of new. Deceit falls from your lips like seeds from a blackbird’s beak. And still, I want you.
About this poem
This poem was commissioned by the Scottish Poetry Library for Burns Day 2022.